A Snowfall Kind of Love
by TheFicChick
Summary: There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.
1. December 1: 24 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

 **Disclaimer:** They're still not mine. I still like to pretend otherwise.

 **A/N:** This is unbetaed, because life with three kids under five means I'm very nearly always flying by the seat of my pants, and as a result, I'm posting as I write. (gulp) That doesn't mean HollettLA isn't still my number one lady (especially when she sends me pictures of dessert). Please be forgiving of the mistakes.

ALSO, I haven't logged into my FFnet account in eons, so I'm about a billion years behind in replying to messages. My apologies; I will catch up eventually. In the meantime, thanks, as always, for being awesome.

Happy December. xo

* * *

 **December 1**

 **(Twenty-four days until Christmas)**

When I was seven, all I wanted for Christmas was a Barbie Dream House. Jessica Stanley had been on and on about the Barbie Dream House she was getting since well before Halloween, and to my seven-year-old brain, anything that Jessica Stanley wanted had to be the height of cool. She had an entire shelf of pink plastic baskets filled with Barbie dolls and a small chest of drawers for the thousands of tiny accessories that went with them. Jessica Stanley's bedroom _was_ Barbie's dream house, but that didn't stop her parents from bestowing upon her the real deal. And despite the fact that that year my dad had been working extra shifts at the police station just to pay the bills, on Christmas morning, there was a Barbie Dream House beneath the tree in our living room.

When I was eleven, it was a new bike. Not just any new bike, but a BMX stunt bike just like the one Tyler Crowley had, and rode to jump off the top of the concrete stairs outside the library and pop wheelies over curbs all over town. Charlie wasn't wild about the idea of his daughter riding a stunt bike, but on December 25, there was a girls' BMX Mongoose propped up next to the fireplace with a big red bow on the handlebars.

When I was sixteen, it was a car. I assured my father that I wasn't picky; I just wanted something that could get me around town so that I wasn't solely reliant on him to chauffeur me. I told him I'd saved enough to contribute, but he waved me off, and when I woke up Christmas morning, there was a secondhand red Volkswagen Cabriolet parked in the driveway.

As it turned out, it was the last Christmas gift my father ever gave me.

Which is all by way of saying that despite the fact that my life hasn't always panned out quite the way I hoped, my dreams have always had a way of coming true at Christmas. That said, it's been years since I made a Christmas wish. And back when I was in the habit of making them, I was also largely in the habit of believing in Santa Claus.

But then, in the wake of my sixteenth Christmas, I realized the truth behind the truth: the magic I'd spent years believing in wasn't Santa, but Charlie. The magic I'd put all my hope and faith in hadn't been a myth, but a man. A man who loved me, a man who never let me down, a man who always gave me as much magic as was in his power to give.

Maybe _that's_ the point of this whole thing: not Santa, not flying reindeer, not presents. Maybe the whole point is where we find magic – _real_ magic – when we look past the supernatural. Maybe, if we're honest, the reality is even more magical than the myth.

Or maybe I'm just grasping at tinsel because this is the first time since I was sixteen that I've wanted something desperately enough to wish for a miracle.

* * *

The wind is biting as I rush across campus, its icy fingers winding through my hair and sliding down the back of my neck, chilling my skin through layers of clothing. I hug my down-filled jacket around my body and duck my head in a vain attempt to shield my face from the blustery weather. Despite my efforts, I feel tears pricking at my eyes, and I have no doubt that my nose could give Rudolph's a run for its money. It's officially December, and while the weather has already been seasonally cold, we have yet to see a single flake of snow. My fellow students at Logan University are getting antsy to sled or have snowball fights on the quad – or in one particular fraternity's case, make naked snow angels in the grassy square outside the library.

It's difficult to believe that in a few short weeks, this part of my life will be a memory, a line item on my resume, a tidbit of my personal history. For the first time in my life, I will cease to be a student. The umbrella of education – no matter how small in diameter or how illusory – will fold itself up and expose me to the harsher elements of the so-called real world: a job (God willing), a "real" life, the onset of my student loan payments. I'll have a master's degree, and I'll join the tide of people trying to shove a toe into the doorjamb of the workforce. Normally, by this time of year, all real-life minutiae has faded to the background, eclipsed by Christmas carols and gift-shopping and house-decorating. This year, however, the vast ambiguity that is my near future has given birth to a niggling anxiety that tempers my usual yuletide excitement. _All I want for Christmas is a Plan A._

A job. A guarantee. A little bit of certainty.

Still, I can't deny that the magic of the season is infecting me with more than a little bit of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, the gods of holiday hope will smile down upon me, and I'll get everything I want.

Well, probably not _everything._

A bark of laughter draws my attention to a cluster of undergrads across the quad, stringing lights around the glorified shrub that serves as the campus holiday tree in preparation for tomorrow's tree-lighting ceremony. The female students seem to be doing the majority of the stringing, however, while their male counterparts seem more intent on wrapping each other up like festive mummies. I smile into the collar of my coat. The yuletide energy that surges through a college campus in the weeks leading up to the winter holiday is infectious. Granted, a large part of it is the pending cessation of everything academic – classes, papers, finals – but there's still an undeniably "holiday" element to it: the tree-lighting, the Toys for Tots box inside the door of the student union building, the community service office's endless push for recruits to work at some of the local soup kitchens over the holidays. It's impossible not to catch the fever of the season. A familiar head of dark hair catches my eye as a tall figure steps through the doors of the main administrative building, and I duck my head, quickening my stride in an attempt to reach the corner before he's close enough to call out. I don't know how long the post-relationship awkward phase is supposed to last, but I don't have it in me to bumble through another half-hearted attempt at casual, friendly conversation today. Especially not in the middle of an arctic wind tunnel.

Another icy blast cuts through my coat, my pants, my everything, and I shiver, all of my muscles going rigid in an attempt to thwart the cold's attempts to seep to my very bones. Despite my love of the holidays, I have considerably less affection for the weather that accompanies them. After two and a half years in Chicago, I'm still not quite acclimated to the bitter wind that slices through me no matter how many layers or how thick a coat I'm wearing. Forks was damp and cold, Seattle was gray and chilly, but nothing has ever frozen me all the way through quite like Chicago's winters do. A small part of me wishes that I had listened to Lauren when she waxed poetic about the sandy beaches and warm sunshine of Florida's gulf coast, and part of me wishes I'd taken her advice and opted to do my graduate degree somewhere sunnier.

But then, of course, I might not have figured out that I wanted to specialize in counseling at-risk youth. I wouldn't have spent three incredible semesters working at Grove House. I'd never have had the opportunity to work with Edward Cullen, my brilliant, beautiful, slightly tormented, eternally oblivious supervisor.

I wouldn't have fallen in love with the one man who doesn't, won't, can't love me back.

Merry freaking Christmas _._

* * *

The heater in my beat-up clunker of a vintage Volkswagen is barely providing more warmth than my own exhalations, and I'm just about frozen through by the time I pull it into the long driveway of Grove House, my fingers stiff around the steering wheel despite the fact that I'm still wearing my mittens. Killing the engine, I peer up at the building before me. A gorgeous renovated Queen Anne-style house the color of vanilla custard with gleaming white trim, it looks like just the type of house that would star it its own holiday film. In the movie world, it would be the home of a beautiful family of six that has matching cable-knit Christmas stockings hanging over the fireplace and drinks steaming mugs of cocoa before bed, all piled like puppies on a sofa with a plaid blanket draped over their laps while they read _The Night Before Christmas_ together. In the real world, it's a home for kids with nowhere else to go. There are no parents tucking them in at night; instead, there's the house's director – a beautiful, brilliant man with his own ghosts – and a small full-time staff of sorts that includes a pair of night security guards, a cook-slash-housekeeper, and me – intern extraordinaire. Still, every time I pull into the driveway, I let myself spend a few seconds imagining a different life for the house. The thought doesn't escape me that the teenage boys inside likely find themselves imagining similar things, not only for the house but for themselves.

The small key-code entry box next to the front door is the only thing that doesn't quite match the house's otherwise traditional exterior, and I punch in the four-digit code with my frozen fingers, stepping through the front door to be enveloped by a wall of heat. The warm blast from the pumping radiators makes me shiver in anticipation of the coming thaw of my bones, and I flex my frozen fingers inside my sadly inadequate mittens, wincing at the ache that precedes the thaw. The low sound of the television hums from the direction of the living area, and when I peek into the room I see Seth and James lounging on the couch watching an action movie. Jake is sprawled in an armchair with a magazine, and the newest addition to the house, Riley, is frowning down at a notebook. Not wanting to disturb them, I shrink back and make my way toward the office at the front corner of the house. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet in announcement of my approach, and by the time I arrive on the threshold, Edward's looking up in expectation. As always, my heart gives a pleased little skip at the warm smile on his face.

"Hey," I say, shrugging out of my coat and unwinding the purple scarf from around my neck.

"Hey there, Michelin Man," he replies, watching from between stacks of papers as I drape the puffy coat over the coat stand behind the office door. I roll my eyes at the familiar jibe; Edward always gives me shit about my coat.

"The Michelin Man was white, jackass." He pushes his wire-rimmed reading glasses up his forehead and into his unruly hair before raising an eyebrow in the direction of my outerwear. "That's cream," I inform him, but I don't know why I bother – it won't do any good.

"Whatever you say," he says with a half-shrug, eyes twinkling. "You look like a marshmallow puff."

"Yeah, well, you look like Mister Rogers," I reply, shooting a pointed look at his gray v-neck sweater, and he chuckles. I'd never admit to the truth of the fact that his elbow-patched sweaters have become appealing to the point of alluring, and I've spent more than one night imagining sliding my hands beneath them, up over the planes of his warm chest, feeling his heat – his _heart_ – beneath my palms.

I cross the small room toward where my small desk sits next to the corner window. Prior to its rebirth as a group home, this particular house was a residence, and it doesn't take much deductive skill to work out that the room Edward selected for his office was at one time a library of sorts. The walls are lined with built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the wall opposite the window boasts a small fireplace. There's a window seat that Edward has repurposed for storage – "storage" meaning a place for more towers of paper – and bright winter light pours through the windows.

Dropping into my desk chair, I cup my hands around my travel mug in an attempt to warm them. I need to buy better gloves. And a better travel mug, come to think of it. "What are you doing?" I ask, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever's sitting on the desk in front of him.

"Just finishing up the schedule for the rest of December," he says, lowering his head once again and returning the glasses to his nose. "I wasn't sure what your travel plans were for the holidays."

"I don't have any. Staying local."

"What days do you want off?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm happy to help as much as you need it."

"What am I going to do without you next year?" he muses.

"I guess you should make it a priority to find another intern with absolutely no social life to speak of," I suggest lightly, despite the small tug I feel somewhere deep in my chest.

A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes stay on his desk. "Speaking of which, we should probably talk about that, too. Hang on."

I stay silent as he frowns down at the schedule; I can see from the color-coding that he's scheduled himself to work every single day this month, including Christmas. No surprise there. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, I consider him: the sharp angles of his face, the barely-corralled revolt of his hair, the smooth curve of his neck. After adding a few more light notes in pencil to various squares on the calendar grid, he drops the writing utensil and leans back in his chair, pushing his glasses back up to the top of his head and swiping his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"What days are _you_ taking off?" I ask pointedly, and as a reward I'm treated to one of his trademark grins.

"I know you graduate mid-month, but you're welcome to stick around through the holidays," he says, bypassing my question entirely. "We'll keep you as long as you'll let us."

The smile on my face is purposely open, and I swallow the burning question that's been nagging at me with increasing ferocity as the days tick by. I get my master's degree in less than three weeks, I've been working at the group home for a year and a half, and not once has Edward put voice to the possibility that I can stay on after I'm done. That he _wants_ me to stay on after I'm done. "You've got me until January," I say. "Hopefully at that point I'll find someone who actually wants to pay me to put up with him."

The grin graduates to a chuckle. "Bella, we're a non-profit; I'd never be able to pay anyone to put up with the array of bullshit I'm capable of producing."

The self-deprecation is familiar, and I frown at him slightly before shrugging. "That's probably true. You really are quite infuriating."

"You have no idea how many women have said those exact words to me."

"I do recall in rather clear detail hearing Kate scream something along those lines at you in the driveway," I remind him, and he groans.

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Nope."

"You're awfully cocky for someone whose boyfriend showed up to your place of employment with a boom box and gifted you with a drunken curbside serenade of 'In Your Eyes'."

"Are we really going to go down the list? Because we both know I have more ammunition on you than you could even dream up for me."

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Uncle."

"Thought so." I take a sip of my coffee and lick my lips. "What's on today's agenda?"

"We need to reschedule the assault advocate for next week, bed linens and towels need to be washed, and Shelly called in – her husband is sick – so we have to figure something out for dinner tonight. She said she left all of the fixings for chili in the fridge, but I've never made it before, so I don't know if we want to risk it."

"I make a mean chili," I tell him. "Put that on my plate. You can call the assault advocate and handle the laundry."

"Deal."

I nod, rising from my chair. "I meant what I said," I say, gesturing toward his schedule. "Put me in wherever. I'm just about done with school stuff, so my schedule's pretty wide open."

He nods, glancing down at the calendar before looking back up at me, his face a picture of sincerity. "Thank you, Bella." At his earnestness, my heart warms in my chest.

"You're welcome, Edward."

Twenty minutes later I'm chopping a green pepper when I feel the sensation that I'm being watched. As I turn my head toward the doorway, I see Jacob Black hovering, watching me chop with his careful, guarded eyes. "Hey, Jake," I say, and he nods in greeting. When it's clear he isn't going to say anything, I gesture toward the bowl of diced onion with my knife. "You like chili?" He nods again but makes no move to enter the kitchen, so I gesture again, this time toward the other green pepper sitting at my elbow. "Want to chop?"

"Sure," he says, finally entering the kitchen and approaching the sink. He washes his hands quickly and dries them before selecting a knife from the wooden block on the counter and picking up the pepper. I slide a cutting board over to him and he begins to slice. I watch in surprise as his large hands nimbly dice.

"Wow," I say after a moment. "You're good at that."

"My mom taught me," he replies softly, and I nod as I go back to my chopping. It was one of the very first lessons I learned when I began taking counseling classes: never push until it's clear that it's welcome. For a few minutes the only sound in the large kitchen is the steady slice and chop of knife blades, and when I occasionally glance over at Jake's work, I'm struck by how fluid his motions are, how gentle and graceful his giant hands look. "She liked to cook," he adds as an afterthought, and I hum in response.

Jacob Black is currently our longest-term resident at Grove House. He's been living at the facility for sixteen months and was one of the first cases that Edward gave me the lead on when I advanced from my practicum to my internship. Jake's parents were killed in a car accident when he was fifteen, and he was subsequently sent to foster care. When the very first home he was placed in turned out to be a bad one, he ran; Jake spent three months living on the streets before he showed up at Grove House.

When I finished my undergraduate degree in sociology and opted to pursue a master's in counseling, I had no idea that I'd end up wanting to work with kids like Jake – kids the system can't help, but who are powerless to help themselves. Sadly, most of the kids who survive on the streets are the ones who opt for a life of drugs or crime or worse. For kids who simply don't have a home but don't want to get sucked into a life of darkness, there's Grove House. I only wish more kids found their way to us before they opted for a life with no options. At this facility, they have shelter, food, and education opportunities while we work on helping them find suitable homes. Sometimes we're able to work with social services to get them better placements; other times they simply age out and move on to a life where they're able to work and create homes of their own.

After I finished my first semester of graduate studies and had to find a practicum site, my advisor recommended that I look into Grove House. On my first visit I was intrigued, and when I met Edward I was done for. Something about his earnestness reeled me in, and by the time I saw him interact with the kids who were living here at the time, I was hooked. And, of course, the more I learned about his own back story and how Grove House came to be, the more invested I became. The balance between my investment in the facility and my investment in the man is something I try not to look at too closely.

"Is this small enough?" Jake's voice interrupts my silent musing, and I glance over to the pile of finely-chopped green pepper sitting on the chopping board in front of him.

"Wow, that's perfect. Nice work."

The small smile that touches Jake's lips is the equivalent of a grin for the average person, and I feel a frisson of satisfaction. Jake's smiles are so rare, and seeing one only expounds my festive spirit. "Anything else?" he asks, glancing around the kitchen, and I shake my head regretfully.

"No, actually, that was the last thing. Now I just have to chuck it all in the pot. But next time there's a kitchen duty, I'm coming to find you."

Another small smile, and I feel like a kid who just found a bicycle under the Christmas tree. "Okay." He lopes out of the kitchen and I smile at the chopped vegetables before the unwelcome realization resurfaces: in less than a month, I'll be gone. Jake and the other kids and Edward will cease to be part of my life, and Grove House will become a place I did an internship once upon a time. I logged the hours I needed for the internship requirement weeks ago, but I've been spending more time at the facility instead of less, as if to soak up all of the time I can before I accept my degree and set about starting my career.

After dumping the browned beef into the larger boiling pot, I scrape the green peppers and onions into a frying pan with a pat of butter and turn them up to sauté them. The onions are just beginning to turn translucent when Edward appears in the doorway. "Smells good," he offers, and I roll my eyes to hide my smile.

"It's just onions and peppers right now," I tell him, dipping my chin to the sizzling pan before me, and he shrugs.

"You're talking to a man who would subsist on Corn Flakes if left to his own devices."

"Shocker."

"You should be nicer to me," he says, lowering himself into one of the mismatched chairs around the worn wooden kitchen table. "You're going to be needing a letter of recommendation from me in the near future, after all."

"Oh, Edward. We both know that you'd have been lost without me over the past eighteen months. Let's not pretend my letters of recommendation are going to be anything less than glowing."

His green eyes lose a little of their mirth and his lips purse. "Right you are," he says after a moment.

It might be the first awkward silence we've ever endured, and, desperate to banish it, I glance over at him. "Did you talk to Rosalie?"

He nods. "Assault advocate is coming next Thursday."

"Okay." I hear a faint tapping sound, and when I look over his fingers are drumming on the table. "Okay," I say again. "Well, once these are done I'm going to put everything in that big pot, and once it's heated through – about an hour – you guys can eat whenever you want, okay?"

His eyebrows hitch. "Not staying for dinner tonight?"

I shake my head. "I have my group meeting."

"Right. It's Thursday. I forgot. Okay, well, Sam just got here so I'm going to run out and pick up the rock salt for the walkway before dinner. I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," I confirm, and he nods once before smiling and rising from the table.

"Okay. See you."

"See you," I return, watching as his lean frame disappears from the kitchen. I finish the chili and set out bowls and spoons on the table before saying hi to Sam Uley, one of the two night security guards, and exiting the house.

As my beater of a car winds its way along the streets that make up the distance between Grove House and my own home, "My Grown-Up Christmas List" is playing on the radio, and despite the fact that I'm not a big Kelly Clarkson fan, I find myself humming along as my gloved fingers drum on the wheel. There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.


	2. December 5: 20 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

. . .

 **Note:** The title of this story comes from Ingrid Michaelson's "Snowfall."

* * *

 _I want a snowfall kind of love_

 _The kind of love that quiets the world_

 _I want a snowfall kind of love_

' _Cause I'm a snowfall kind of girl._

 _Won't you bury me in your quiet love?_

 _I want a snowfall kind of love_

 _The kind of love that keeps you in bed all day_

 _Oh I want to walk through with you_

 _And watch it all melt away._

* * *

 **December 5**

 **(Twenty days until Christmas)**

"Oh, no," Edward groans as he spies the cardboard box in my arms. Then again, "spies" probably isn't the right word; the box is obscuring most of my body and I'm barely able to peek at him from around its side.

"Don't shit on Christmas, Edward."

"Well that's a lovely turn of phrase," he says, still eyeing the box with barely-disguised dismay.

I shrug. My affinity for colorful language is a frequent subject of commentary for Edward. "Don't be such a Scrooge and maybe I won't have to call you out." He rolls his eyes. We went through this charade last year: at the onset of the holiday season, Edward pretended to hate it. He grumbled about Christmas carols, complained about how messy Christmas trees are, and bemoaned the levels of chaos present in virtually every retail establishment. But by Christmas Eve, as he watched the kids at Grove House open their small gifts, his eyes were shining brighter than the twinkle lights on the small tree in the living room. "You're going to help me decorate," I tell him, and he arches a brow.

"Oh?"

I preface my kill shot with a sweet smile. "Unless you're really the type of guy who would let a girl scale a ladder to the roof in the freezing cold unassisted."

"Cheap shot," he mutters, clicking the mouse of his archaic desktop computer a few times before rising from behind his desk and grabbing his coat from the rack by the door. "You forget that I watched you incapacitate a guy nearly twice your size once; you can hardly play the damsel in distress routine with me."

He has a point. When a drug dealer showed up looking for one of our kids last summer, Edward found himself staring down the barrel of a gun; while the fact that the dealer didn't hear me sneaking up behind him from the direction of the kitchen gave me an undeniable advantage, Charlie's self-defense training kicked in almost involuntarily and we were able to subdue him until the police showed up. The sudden thought of Charlie pulls a dark cloud over my previous lightheartedness, and I plop the box on the floor as Edward shrugs into his coat.

His eyebrows pull together in a frown and he glances down into my face. "Hey, I was only kidding. You know I'll help."

I shake my head, even as a ball of unexpected tears rises in my throat at the onslaught of memories of my dad that I'm powerless to halt. Edward's expression goes from concern to alarm as a tear escapes my eye; he's never seen me cry, and judging from his expression, he's one of those men who treats crying women like they're contagious. "Bella, Jesus, what is it? What did I say?"

"Nothing," I squeak, brushing the tear from my cheek and rolling my eyes upward to stare at the ceiling in an attempt to discourage any more from slipping over my cheeks. "I think I have PMS."

I've apparently hit on the one thing that makes Edward more uncomfortable than crying, if his visible recoil is anything to judge by. "Um." He scratches the side of his neck and rolls his shoulders as another tear rolls down my face in blatant disregard of my attempts to thwart it. "Jesus," he breathes, and suddenly I'm in his arms. Given that my face is hidden in the chest of his wool coat, I take the opportunity to set a few more pooled tears free even as I force myself to take deep, regular breaths.

"Sorry," I mutter into his chest, my words muffled. I force thoughts of Charlie out of my mind and focus instead on the feel of his strong arms around me: the press of his biceps against my shoulders and the smooth circles of his hands rubbing my back. Almost immediately, I wish we weren't wearing coats. I wish we weren't wearing any clothes, come to that, but I'd start with the coats.

"Are you okay?" His voice is soft and raspy, and I wonder fleetingly if it's what he sounds like when he wakes up in the morning.

"Yeah," I reply, sniffling as I regain my composure. "Sorry. I just…sudden memory of my dad. Caught me off-guard."

He hugs me tightly for a beat before pulling back to look down at me, his hands clutching my biceps. Immediately, I wish I were still cradled in his arms. "Yeah," he says finally, still gazing down into my face, and I can see the ghosts that he always hides lurking there behind the concern.

I had been working at Grove House for nearly three months before I ever heard the story of how Edward came to be its founder. Over coffee one night, I got the bullet points: Edward's father was an abusive drunk who kept his mother plied with cocaine and eventually heroin to keep her malleable. After she died of an overdose when Edward was twelve, he ran and subsequently became one of the numerous teenagers living on the streets of Chicago, trying to avoid the traps of drug dealers and gangs. In a stroke of pure luck, a woman volunteering at the Salvation Army store caught him trying to steal a coat; instead of turning him in to the police, she took him home with her. She and her husband were ultimately allowed to foster Edward and arranged for him to see a counselor to help him deal with everything he'd experienced in his young life. The counselor had such a positive impact on him that he eventually decided to pay it forward; he did his undergraduate degree in psychology and a doctorate in counseling, and upon completion of his degree, he began the planning for Grove House. His adoptive parents, Carlisle and Esme, helped him with some of the funding and reached out to many of their friends in the affluent circles of Chicago society, and thanks in no small part to their connections, Grove House became a reality. The lucky break that likely saved Edward as a teenage runaway is something that I suspect haunts him when he sees the kids who didn't hit the same jackpot, and there is an underlying desperation to his work that makes brief but rare appearances.

In comparison with his life story, my own – that my police officer father was killed in the line of duty and I was sent to live with a mother who resented my presence for the not-quite-two years she had to raise me until I was eighteen – seems trivial. Still, it was what led me to him: when I befriended an upper-level counseling student during my undergraduate degree who heard my story and said simply, "I'm so sorry that happened to you. That must have been really hard," I was stunned. She didn't try to solve my problem and didn't try to tell me how to feel; all she did was acknowledge the experience and try to empathize. I told her as much and she said that it was one of the first things she learned in her early coursework. That small moment did wonders for me, and put me on the path to counseling.

Edward's eyes are still roaming my face and, unused to being in such close proximity to him while also being the center of his focus, I try not to squirm. "You okay?" he breathes, and I nod.

"I'm good." I break his gaze and nod toward the box. "But now you're definitely helping."

He mock-groans, but his relief at my recovery is almost palpable. "Cheap," he mutters, but his lips curve upward. "Okay, lead the way."

Twenty minutes later, Edward is holding the end of a length of fake garland as I attempt to affix it to the wooden mantelpiece with Scotch tape. The iPod dock I brought with me is plugged into an outlet in the corner and suitably festive carols are emanating from its tiny speakers.

"We're going to need a tree," I remind him, and he makes a noise of disapproval.

"I think I was sweeping up pine needles for almost a month after we got rid of last year's," he grumbles, and I curse as the tape I'm attempting to stick to the garland sticks to itself instead.

"Oh, please. _You_ were sweeping?"

"Hey, I sweep!"

"Rarely." Shelly and I tend to do the more housework-related duties, while Edward, Sam, and Paul handle the majority of the repairs and most of the heavy lifting. The administrative concerns, of course, are all on Edward's plate. "You better make sure your next intern is adept at cleaning."

"Noted."

I'm doing my best to ignore the familiar niggle of dread that creeps in at the acknowledgement of my pending departure from Grove House, and I can't help but wonder how Edward feels about it. The possibility that I'm just another intern who will be replaced in a matter of weeks does unpleasant things to my insides.

Finally managing to adhere the garland to the mantelpiece, I gesture a la Vanna White. "How does it look?"

Edward takes a step back and cocks his head slightly to one side. "Lopsided."

"What?" I step off the hearth and stand beside him, surveying our work. "It does not!"

"Yes, it does. That side is hanging lower than that side."

Squinting, I assess. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"They look even to me."

"Trust me. They're not even."

There's a note of something unidentifiable in his voice, but when I peek up at him, he's staring intently at the garland. "Fine," I say finally. "You fix it."

He grins. "Gladly." A slight rearranging, and I have to admit that he was right. As he mimics my game-show-style gesture, I roll my eyes and mock-clap.

"Bravo."

"Thank you."

I bend to rummage in the box and unearth a handful of cheap red felt stockings. "Do we have enough?"

"We should."  
I flick through them, counting to myself. Last year, I asked Edward if he wanted me to stitch names on the stockings. It seemed almost sad to have nameless ones hanging above the fireplace, but he said that it implied too much permanence, that he never wanted to overstep that boundary with the kids. There are enough stockings for everyone – the guys, Edward, Shelly, Sam, Paul, and me – and I rummage for the small hooks from which to hang them.

When I straighten, Edward is still gazing at the garland, one hand on his hip and the other scratching his jaw. I know that look; that's his considering look. He gets it whenever he's turning something over in his mind: logistical house-related stuff, mostly, but also when he's trying to work out what he wants to say in his head before it comes out of his mouth. Finally, the hand scratching his jaw rubs once, roughly, through his hair before joining the other at his hips.

"Your dad," he says finally, and my spine stiffens.

"Yeah." I can hear the wariness in my own voice, and I can tell by the way his eyes dart to mine before dropping to the tape dispenser still in his hand that he heard it too.

"You miss him."

It isn't a question, but I answer it all the same. "Yeah."

"Is it…" He trails off, scratching his jaw again, glaring at the red stockings with a newfound fervor.

"What?" I prod, and he looks back at my face, eyes wary.

"Is it worse? At Christmas?"

I swallow at the re-forming knot in my throat. "Yeah," I say finally. "It's worse at Christmas." He nods but doesn't say anything, and the suddenly overwhelming desire to talk about Charlie nearly chokes me. "He loved Christmas. My dad wasn't really one for big emotional demonstrations, but he always loved the holidays. We'd cut down a tree together and string popcorn to decorate it with, and I'd always hang the ugly ornaments I'd made over the years on the back branches, but he'd always move them to the front when I wasn't looking. He would take me to the Forks Diner for hot chocolate on Christmas Eve – he always got the whipped cream stuck in his moustache – and then we'd get in his cruiser and drive all over town, looking at people's Christmas lights." The memories are like an open spigot; I can't stop them. "When I was a kid, I had this _huge_ Christmas stocking – like, almost big enough to be a sleeping bag – and he'd fill it with my Santa presents and prop it up against my bed. Even after I was too old to believe in Santa, he still did it – he'd sneak into my room after I was asleep and leave the stocking at the foot of my bed, crammed with presents. I'd wake up and drag it down the stairs in the morning so we could open presents together by the tree." I can see my dad in my mind's eye, clearer than usual. His threadbare plaid bathrobe that always smelled like his soap and deodorant. The rubber-soled slippers that were so old they had holes in the heels of the lining. His favorite coffee mug – _"Some heroes wear capes; mine wears Kevlar."_ – that I bought him for Christmas when I was eight. "He loved presents. He loved giving them and he loved getting them, even though he really tried to pretend to be all gruff about it. He'd get this twinkle in his eye and he'd almost wriggle in his chair like a puppy." I realize I've been stroking the stocking in my hand like a blanket. "I loved my dad. I always loved my dad. But at Christmas, he was my favorite. It was like…all the love he sort of tamped down during the year just overflowed, and for a few days it was like we were giddy kids together."

When I finally stop talking, Edward's watching me intently, a brand-new expression on his face. It's gentle and open and it makes my heart feel like a peach: soft and thin-skinned and easily bruised. "He sounds really special, Bella."

I nod, blinking hard. "He was."

"Does it…" When I look at him, he's got that look again – that considering look. "Does that make it harder, to celebrate Christmas?"

"The first year it did. My dad loved the Billboard Christmas album – you know, all the old classic songs. 'Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer,' 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree,' that stupid Chipmunks song. I couldn't listen to it, that first year, without breaking down. But now…I guess now it makes him feel close again. I don't really…most days, I don't really believe in ghosts or spirits or any kind of overlap between this life and whatever comes next. At Christmas, though…" I falter, feeling suddenly and stupidly exposed. How long have I been rambling, for crying out loud? Finally, I shrug. "At Christmas, I almost feel like he comes back, in a tiny little way."

Now he's staring at the stockings in my hand, another different look on his face. I realize, in this moment, that despite my fascination with Edward, my attraction toward him, my affection, my respect, and – yes – my lust, there's a lot about him I don't really know. A lot, I suspect, that he holds back by choice. The multitude of unfamiliar expressions I've been treated to over the course of the past few minutes is rather clear proof. "No wonder," he murmurs finally, still gazing at the stockings.

"No wonder what?"

When he meets my eye, I'm finally treated to an expression I know, and it's one of my favorites: the slow, soft, affectionate smile that spills over his face like warm honey. "No wonder you get so enthusiastic about this stuff."

"Oh," I say, looking back down at the cluster of red felt in my hands. "Yeah, I guess."

"I'm sorry if I've taken away from that. From you. Last year or this year. I didn't realize."

"You didn't," I say immediately. "I promise." Off his dubious look, I smile. "Actually, I see you as a challenge. I'm in the process of converting you, you see."

"Converting me, huh?" he echoes, face relaxing.

"Yep. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be one of those people who starts counting down the days until Christmas in September."

"Bite your tongue," he admonishes, but he's smiling.

"Mark my words, Cullen. You'll be as merry as one of Santa's little elves if it's the last thing I do."

The minute the words are out, their relative truth hits me: it won't be the last thing I do, but it will be the last thing I do here. A silence descends between us, and I can't help wondering if he's thinking along the same lines. The song on my iPod turns over, and the opening bars of a familiar carol ring through the small living room.

"You know," Edward says, drawing near and bending over the box to search for the hooks, "it's a good thing this song was written years ago. These days it would be the '40 Days of Christmas,' and it would start well in advance of Thanksgiving."

My shoulders relax. Despite my unwavering affinity for the holidays, I agree with him on this very valid point. The small grocery store by my apartment began stocking candy canes before Halloween. "True."

"The poor bastard would be broke by the start of December," he adds, handing me a small box of tiny, gold-colored hooks and grabbing two fake red-velvet bows.

I laugh. "Also true."

Edward sets about adhering a bow to either end of the garland, and I try unsuccessfully to smother my smile as I screw hooks into the underside of the mantel and hang the stockings. "Partridges aren't particularly exotic or even all that attractive," he continues after a few verses, burying his hands in his pockets and stepping back to survey our work. "Then again, neither are pears. So all in all, that was a pretty bum gift."

"Probably not nearly as irritating as having nine lords leaping all over your house or eight maids who I assume came with lactating cows," I counter, hanging the final stocking and stepping back next to him.

"Valid point."

After one more glance at the mantelpiece, he faces me and cocks an eyebrow. "Outdoor lights?"

"Outdoor lights," I agree, and he hoists the box into his arms and follows me to the foyer, where we quickly don our winter wear before slipping out the front door.

By the time the outside of the house is as Griswold-esque as Edward is willing to let me make it, my hands are very nearly frozen. Once again, I make a mental note to buy new gloves.

"So all we have left is a tree," I remind him, and he nods, giving me a small smile.

"A tree," he agrees without his usual grousing, and victory surges through me.

"I'll pick one up," I offer, clapping my hands together, and he frowns before tossing a glance to where my car sits parked in the driveway.

"And do what, carry it here?" Before I can answer, he shakes his head. "I'll go with you."

If it were anyone but Edward I'd argue, but the days I have left to enjoy his company are numbered, and I'm not about to turn him down for anything.

I just wish he'd make me a different offer.

* * *

That evening, I'm sitting in a steakhouse with Alice and Jasper to celebrate the latter's birthday, enjoying everything about the evening: the soft cashmere of my sweater against my skin, the holiday décor of the restaurant, the fireplace softly glowing on the opposite side of the room, the company of my best friend and her best guy.

Alice has been my roommate since I first moved to Chicago. Going against every self-preservation instinct I possessed – not to mention a lifetime of Charlie's safety training – I responded to an ad from a sane-sounding woman on Craigslist, hoping against hope that the human on the other end of the Internet wasn't a raving lunatic. Mercifully, she turned out to be friendly, outgoing, and blessedly normal. Within months of my moving from Seattle to Chicago, our roommate relationship blossomed into a genuine friendship, and her boyfriend, Jasper, has become the closest thing to a brother I've ever had. Mercifully, my recent breakup with his _actual_ brother, Emmett – which could have potentially created a million different kinds of awkwardness – was something he treated with what Alice calls his "typical Jasper aloofness." A shrug, a slow blink, and a squeeze to my shoulder, and that was that. With the exception of a single message a few weeks ago – "It's been impressed upon me that a 'good brother' would go to bat for his brother and tell you that he'd like a second chance, but that's the extent of my involvement and you should know that I am in no way attempting to convince you of anything at all, and I've told said brother that I patently refuse to play messenger, so if you wish to convey a response, please feel free to do so firsthand" – he hasn't mentioned Emmett, and neither have I.

I felt faintly guilty about tonight, worrying that Alice hadn't invited Emmett because of me, but she assured me that Em had something going on, and that he and Jasper had met up for lunch and were going to the Bears game next weekend to celebrate.

Tonight, the small red votive candle holders in the table centers throw soft red halos of light onto the white linen tablecloths, and illuminated crystal snowflakes dangle from the ceiling, and I let myself melt into the cushioned chair, the warmth of friendship, the crystal glow of winter cheer, the delicious smells wafting up from my just-delivered platter of food.

"To the birthday boy," Alice toasts, raising her wine glass. "My love, my best friend, and one hell of a lay."

Jasper dips his chin, a small smile curling one side of his mouth as he shakes his head slightly, but when he glances back up at Alice, his eyes are alight. "Thanks, Al."

"Happy birthday, Jasper," I add, and he lifts his glass in my direction.

"Thanks, Bell."

We all drink and return our glasses to the table to start in on our food. The plates look like something out of a food ad: grill marks crosshatch the surfaces of all three steaks, and tiny glass jars of horseradish sauce sit dutifully beside them. Three baked potatoes are cracked open like oysters, and bright green clumps of broccoli sit like tiny clusters of trees beside the potatoes. My mouth waters.

"So. Ready for graduation?" Alice asks, picking up her knife and fork.

"Yes and no. Yes, because if I have to write another paper or log another unpaid hour, I might tear out my hair. No, because…hello. Still unemployed."

She gives me a sympathetic look. "You're too good at what you do to stay that way, though. The perfect thing will come down the pike. I know it."

I bite back the thought that I already _have_ the perfect gig – I just don't get to keep it.

"I have an interview with social services next week," I acknowledge, cutting into my steak, and Alice beams.

"Hey, awesome! You'd be so great at that job."

Jasper nods sagely. "You really would, Bella. They'd be lucky to have you."

"Thanks," I reply, dipping my knife into the horseradish sauce and smearing it onto the bite on my fork. "We'll see. I already know someone there, so I at least have a contact."

"Don't sound so psyched," Alice says, and though her tone is teasing I know that she's digging.

I shrug. "I'm just going to miss Grove," I admit, bringing my fork to my lips.

Alice's lips purse. "Grove?" She is the only person to whom I've confessed my crush on Edward, and as a result I'm sure Jasper isn't entirely in the dark. I wonder if he suspects the extent to which my unrequited feelings for my supervisor factored into my decision to dump his brother. His cool blue gaze gives nothing away. I'd only ever admit to Alice how pathetic it made me feel, breaking up with a perfectly good guy simply because I spend too much time imagining doing things with my boss that I should _actually_ be doing with my boyfriend. Still, I couldn't shake the thought that if I truly had feelings for Emmett, I wouldn't feel so strongly for Edward. I flick another glance in Jasper's direction as I chew slowly, buying myself some time. "You could just tell him, you know," Alice says finally, biting the bullet along with her New York strip, and I shoot her a look, which she blandly ignores. Jasper's face is carefully blank.

"He's my supervisor," I say in half-hearted protest, and Alice rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, for like, another half an hour. You could tell him as of…what, next week?"

I cut another bite of meat, giving the task closer attention than it really requires. "I need his recommendation."

"Bella."

"Okay, fine, look, I'm going to be staying in Chicago if I get a job, and I'd like to be his friend, okay? I don't want to freak him out when I go all lovey-dovey on him like some lovesick teenager. You should see how fast he just shuts down on women. Believe me, I've had a front-row seat to those train wrecks."

And I have. Edward's entire life is wrapped up in Grove House, and the few so-called "relationships" I've witnessed have all flared and fizzled with alarming speed. And, when they reach the fizzle part, Edward never seems overly bothered by their demise. On the one occasion I broached the topic, his cryptic yet telling response was a simple, "I'm not very good at sharing my life." Recognizing the allusion for what it was, I let it go, but it left a permanent mark: from that moment, I knew I'd never attempt to disclose my true feelings to him in case I became one of the burnt fuses left in his wake.

"And he still hasn't said anything about you staying on?" This question comes from Jasper, who's reaching for his pilsner glass, nothing but friendly openness on his face.

"He's made vague references to the fact that he can't afford to hire any full-time staff; he's stretched himself about as thin as he can with Shelly and Sam and Paul working the hours they work."

Alice sighs, slipping a pat of butter into the crevice of her baked potato. "I guess there's only one thing left to do then." I hitch an eyebrow in her direction and she grins. "Hang some mistletoe."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading, and for all of the kind words. I should clarify something from the previous chapter's A/N: I am behind on replying to messages (meaning private messages). I don't write review replies because it's something I started at the beginning and found myself utterly unable to keep up with. I suspect that would only be more true three years and two more babies later. That said, I read and savor and appreciate every single one of them. If, however, you'd like a response, PMs are the way to go! (Like I said, I'm behind. But I'm working on it.)

Thanks again for all the love. You guys remain the coolest. xo


	3. December 10: 15 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

* * *

 _Snow falls slow in the moonlight_

 _Children merrily play_

 _All that I want for Christmas_

 _Is to give my love away_

 _Off in the distance they're singing_

 _Choirs of carolers sway_

 _All that I want for Christmas_

 _Is to give my love away._

 _(Matt Costa, "All That I Want for Christmas (Is to Give My Love Away)")_

* * *

 **December 10**

 **(Fifteen days until Christmas)**

"I suck at this," Edward grouses as we stand in front of the illuminated directory that maps out all of the stores in the mall.

"Reading maps?" I ask, peering at the color-coded layout.

"Christmas shopping," he clarifies, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark-washed jeans. "I never know what to get people."

I flick my eyes over the list in my hands and back to the map, trying to figure out the best way to go about maximizing our productivity while minimizing the amount of time Edward will have to spend in the crowded mall. Something tells me his patience is going to wear thin pretty rapidly under the combined effects of the sea of people and the repeat loop of holiday jingles emanating from invisible speakers. "Well, we have a list. I'm sure we can knock this out pretty quickly. Besides, the kids will be grateful to get something, no matter what it is."

He nods. "Yeah."

"Okay," I say, straightening. "Do you want to divide the list in half and split up, or do it together?"

"Together," he says instantly, and I try not to smile.

"Okay." I glance down at my square of paper once more to determine our first few stops before folding it over and stashing it in my pocket. When I look back up into Edward's face, his eyes are looking past me. When he realizes I'm looking at him, he meets my gaze quickly, but a flush works its way across his face. I frown and glance behind me; when I realize what he was looking at, I can't stop the laugh that bubbles up in my throat.

"Well, I guess I know what to get you," I say teasingly, and to my enjoyment his blush deepens.

"It's not going to do me much good unless you can get me the girl to go with it," he replies, allowing his gaze to flick past me again to the Victoria's Secret storefront and the floor-to-ceiling picture of a model in red lingerie and a Santa hat behind the glass, before meeting my eyes again and allowing a wicked grin to cross his face, eliminating the blush altogether. The grin widens when my own face flushes, and I roll my eyes before turning to walk away.

"Sorry, I already bought you socks," I toss over my shoulder, even as I can't stop picturing the lingerie and a scenario in which I'd get to see him enjoy it.

"Too bad," he says, falling into step beside me. "Although her feet _were_ bare, so socks might come in handy as well."

"You were looking at her _feet_?" I ask, injecting as much skepticism as I can into my voice and my sideways glance.

He laughs. "No. But I was very aware of what she _was_ , in fact, wearing, and it wasn't on her feet."

"Gross," I mutter, even though it's anything but. He laughs again, and it does more to make me feel jolly than the music and the decorations and the shoppers' excitement combined. "So that's what does it for you, huh? Borderline slutty lingerie?"

He snorts. "Half-naked girls do it for me, Bella. I don't care if they're wearing classy lingerie or slutty lingerie or fishing nets."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"I've just…never seen you act so typically… _guy_ ish. This is new territory."

His hands are still in his pockets and his eyes are on the storefronts as we pass. "Sorry," he says after a moment, the wolfishness gone. Immediately, I want it to come back. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't," I promise.

"I guess…I'm just comfortable with you."

I nod, pleasure warming my chest like cocoa. "I'm comfortable with you, too."

"And we won't be working together for much longer," he adds, almost as an afterthought, and I wince. He draws to a sudden halt and when I turn to face him I'm taken aback by his serious demeanor. "Bella, listen, you've been invaluable to me and to the House over the past year and a half. But you've also…you've been a really good friend, and if I forget to say it later, thank you for that."

I want to tell him that I don't want to leave, that he's been a good friend too, that I want to help him figure out how to share his life, but his green eyes are open and warm and I don't want to say anything that will close them off, chase away this open, forthcoming Edward I've only seen on the rarest of occasions. "Thank you," I say simply, hoping he can hear the rest of what I don't. He nods once, then resumes walking.

"So. Where are we headed?"

I gesture toward Bath & Body Works with a shrug. "Shelly." Generally speaking, bubble baths and lotions and other concoctions seem like sort of a cop-out gift, but Shelly genuinely loves them. When I offered her the test-sized tube of hand lotion I was carrying around in my purse but not using, you'd have thought it was a round-trip ticket to Fiji.

Before we even step inside the store, we're enveloped by a cloud of fragrance, a sickly-sweet bubble of combined aromas that carry hints of apple, flower, citrus, sugar, and nothing even remotely Christmassy. Almost on cue, Edward wrinkles his nose. "Whoa."

I laugh, mock-shoving him at the small of his back until he crosses the threshold. I can feel the curve of his spine, that low expanse just above his belt line where it tapers into his narrow waist, and I have to force my hands not to linger. "The sooner we find something, the sooner we can escape."

"Right. So…what are we looking for?"

I shrug, glancing around; a sales clerk with the overeager anticipation of a puppy attempts to catch my eye. "A gift set, maybe? With some lotion and shower gel and stuff in it?" Before he can respond, the excitable clerk materializes beside us.

"Can I help you two find anything?" Her words are aimed at me, but her eyes are on Edward, and who can blame her? The things his blue sweater is doing to his eyes should be illegal, not to mention what the faded jeans are doing to his…other parts.

"Gift sets?" Edward asks, and the woman beams at his willingness to take her up on her offer. She nods fervently, gesturing toward a tall display in the middle of the store that we likely could have spotted given thirty more seconds. "Follow me."

We do as instructed, and I notice Edward noticing the way her apron is wrapped a good three times around her tiny, elfin waist. "Does your girlfriend have a favorite fragrance?" the clerk asks, flicking her eyes toward me as if I'm not actually present or capable of answering for myself, and Edward's confused eyes follow hers briefly before he shakes his head. "No, it's not…we're shopping for coworkers." Her eyes narrow slightly, realizing that Edward has neither confirmed nor denied her rather obvious inquisition, but before she can rally for another strike, he speaks again. "Thanks for your help." It's an obvious dismissal, and I wonder if he notices the slight deflation in her posture.

"Sure," she says, voice still bright. "Let me know if I can help with anything else."

Edward's gaze is trained on the pyramid of gift sets, though, and she slinks away. "You know," I say conversationally, picking up a plastic zippered bag with a collection of travel-sized bottles in it. "Bath & Body Works is actually owned by the same parent retailer as Victoria's Secret, so I bet she'd be more than willing to model some of their lingerie for you."

"She's not my type," he says dismissively, picking up a red wicker basket with a trio of bottles. He sniffs, making a face before putting it back. Drumming his fingers against his denim-clad thigh, he lets his eyes scan the monstrous display. "How the hell are we supposed to pick one of these?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I guess just…pick a fragrance that smells nice and find a pack with stuff that it seems like Shelly would actually use." He nods and gets to work; the array of grimaces that pass over his face as he samples the different scents are nearly enough to make me laugh aloud. I'm fleetingly grateful that I'm too broke to use anything more expensive than Ivory soap and Johnson & Johnson lotion. As I watch him inhale, scowl, and reshelf, I mull over his dismissal as I run through the women I've seen him "date" over the course of the past year and a half.

Kate: tall, blond, beautiful, wealthy, ball-busting.

Bree: tiny, dark-haired, exotic, crunchy, soft-spoken.

Tori: curvy, red-headed, laid-back, friendly, outgoing.

If he does, in fact, have a type, evidently the sole criterion is "female."

"What?" he asks when he realizes I'm staring at him instead of sampling the merchandise, and I shrug myself out of my silent assessment.

"Nothing," I reply as he retrieves another gift set and sniffs warily; almost immediately, his face smoothes out and his eyebrows lift slightly.

"Okay, this one actually smells good." As he extends it toward me, I glance at the label before lifting it to my nose. Warm vanilla sugar. "That's not surprising," I say, breathing in deeply.

"Why not?"

"Vanilla is said to be an aphrodisiac scent for men. It's my own personal theory that it has something to do with that whole, 'the way to man's heart is through his stomach' thing." He glares momentarily at the set in my hand before snatching it back and sliding it onto the shelf. "No go on the vanilla?" I ask, teasing.

"I may like the vanilla, but I don't exactly want our cook wearing something…aphrodisiac."

I pull a small floral tote with wild honeysuckle lotion, body cream, and shower gel in it. "Well, if I manage to find the girl to go with the lingerie, I'll be sure to slip in a bottle of vanilla lotion to complete the package."

"Terrific," he says, eyeing the set in my hands warily as I hold it out to him. A tentative inhalation, and he nods. "That one works."

"It's not turning you on?" I tease, slightly giddy at this foray into faintly illicit territory, and to my relief, he grins.

"Not in the slightest."

"Okay, then. Sold."

Once we've purchased the tote and stepped back into the mall, Edward seems mildly invigorated by our relatively quick success in crossing something off our list. "Who's next?" he asks, glancing around.

"Well, we have Rosalie, Sam, Paul, and the boys. Any ideas?"

After a moment's pause, Edward shrugs. "Something fitness-related for Sam? He's been talking about training for a half-triathlon in the spring."

"That's a good idea," I agree. "Maybe we should hit the sports store."

"Lead the way."

As we make our way toward the opposite end of the mall, the sights and sounds of the season are undeniable. As much as people grouse about the commercialization of Christmas, I can't deny that I love the mall at the holidays. Despite the crowds, there's something about the decorations and the music that only adds to the yuletide spirit. In the center of the mall, there's a line of kids waiting to see Santa, who sits on his plush red throne surrounded by a staff of elves. As we pass, he waves to me, and I grin as I wave back. When I glance over at him, Edward's battling a smile.

We keep walking, passing kiosks with people hocking their wares, a small display of hand-painted tree ornaments, another with racks of Santa hats and Christmas stockings. As we wander, I study the store windows, trying to brainstorm what I can get for Edward; this may be my last chance to have a real reason to buy him a Christmas gift. My mind flashes back to the lingerie. _If only._

Last year, I simply made him a platter of Christmas cookies. This year, given the fact that I know him better, the fact that we're closer, the fact that I'm leaving, I want to give him something that will still be around come January. And yet nothing I see screams _Edward._ He's a minimalist – whether a holdover from his years on the street or a result of a desire not to create a divide between his public persona and his private one, I'm not sure. He wears nondescript, non-brand-name clothes, with the exception of his Patagonia winter coat, which was a gift from Esme and Carlisle last Christmas. Everything about him is functional, not flashy: his warm sweaters, his practical shoes, his simple digital watch.

 _Watch._

I think about buying him a nice, classic watch. Leather strap. Silver face. Roman numerals. I imagine seeing it on his wrist all those times he shoves his sleeves up his forearms whenever he's frustrated or flustered. I wonder if he'd wear it. I wonder if he'd think of me when he did. I wonder if I'll still be in his life enough to have the answer to either of those questions.

I wish it were possible to buy time in the figurative sense as easily as in the literal.

We pass the Brookstone storefront, inside which sit two semi-reclined massaging lounge chairs that immediately make me think of Charlie and his beloved leather Barcalounger, the armrests worn shiny. My chest twinges.

"If I sat in one of those, I don't think I'd get up again," Edward says from just behind me, and I realize I'm stopped dead, staring at the chairs.

"Me either," I agree, playing off the sudden wave of nostalgic heartache as fatigue.

"Break time?" he proposes, and the hope in his eyes is obvious.

"Break time," I agree. Navigating the ever-thickening crowd, I lead us to the coffee kiosk and attach myself to the end of the mercifully short queue. Despite my offers to carry bags, Edward looks like a pack mule, paper and plastic sacks dangling from his wrists and hands. After two hours, we've managed to secure gifts for Shelly, Sam, Paul, and the boys; the only one left on our list is Rosalie, who is a godsend to us, our best contact within the city system. "This is on me," I say preemptively, fishing my wallet out of my purse and eyeballing the holiday menu. Despite the fact that Edward doesn't drink coffee, I know he's got a weak spot for the chain's peppermint hot chocolate.

"I'd argue, but I'm fairly certain that reaching my wallet would require some kind of third-party intervention." Briefly, I allow myself to imagine that I have the gumption or the right to slide my hand into the pocket at the seat of his jeans before forcing myself back to the present moment.

"Peppermint hot chocolate?"

"You know me too well," he replies, eyes scanning the menu boards above the cash registers. "What are you getting?"

"Gingerbread latte."

By the time we have our festive red cups, we wander around to the space behind the kiosk where a small cluster of tables is arranged; it's a minor Christmas miracle that Edward spies a vacant one just beside the coffee condiment counter. "Jackpot," I say, placing our drinks on the tabletop and looping my purse over the back of one of the chairs. "Here," I say, watching Edward attempt unsuccessfully to extricate his wrists from the numerous bag handles. I gently free him, setting the bags on the third seat at the table as Edward rubs his wrists and plops into his empty chair.

"So we're done?" he asks, pulling his cup toward him and blowing into the hole in the lid.

"Almost. Just Rose left," I remind him, and he slumps against his backrest. "But I'll brainstorm. I haven't really seen anything that stood out to me for her."

"You sure?" he asks, but it's token at best. It's pretty obvious that he's at the end of his yuletide rope, the crowd becoming increasingly thick around us, the sense of determination nearly as heavy as the smell of sugared pecans coming from the nearby stand.

"Sure."

"Thank God," he breathes, and I grin. He's put on a brave face, but he's wilting before my very eyes. It makes me want to take him home and collapse on the couch with him and watch _It's a Wonderful Life_ while the world falls dark.

"I can drop you off at the house with all of these and then go get the tree," I say, blowing into my own cup, but when I peek up at Edward over its rim, he's shaking his head.

"I said I'd go with you."

"I know. I just didn't know if you were maxed out on your holiday goodwill for the day."

He shrugs, taking a tentative sip of his hot chocolate and licking his lips. "I think I can stomach it."

"Okay," I agree, taking a sip of my own latte to hide my pleasure. Remembering the list in my pocket, another thought strikes me. "Was there any more shopping you needed to do? For…anyone else?"

"Nah. I've got to get something for Carlisle and Esme, but I'll figure it out. I've got time."

I would think he was one of those Christmas Eve shoppers, if the very idea of Edward in a mall the night before Christmas didn't seem less likely than stepping into my kitchen on Christmas morning to find Santa himself scrambling me an egg.

"Okay. They have some really nice things in Macy's," I suggest, trying to think of somewhere he'd be likely to find thoughtful but relatively inexpensive gifts for both his adoptive parents in one place, but entirely clueless as to what either of them would actually like.

"Thanks," he says, and I recognize it for the dismissal it is. "Do you have a lot of shopping to do?"

I shake my head. "Not really. I need to find something for my mom soon, if it's going to have time to get to her."

"Phoenix?"

I feel the surprise slide over my face; the only time I've ever mentioned my mother to him was when I first started at Grove House, and he asked where I was from. It took me only a couple of minutes to outline my Forks-Phoenix-Seattle-Chicago trajectory before moving on. "Right. I've left it a little late, but at least I already sent her card."

"You don't spend the holidays together?" There's a hesitation in his voice, and I can't blame him. The last time we talked about anything related to my family, I was a snot-nosed, crying mess in his arms.

"No." Whether from personal experience or as a byproduct of his job, he, too, recognizes a dismissal when he hears one, and he simply nods.

"Well, you should have time. FedEx and UPS are on top of their game this time of year; you've still got more than two weeks, so unless you're sending her a pony, I think you'll be fine."

"Note to self: cross pony off the list."

He grins. "Wise woman."

* * *

There are few things that I love more about the holiday season than Christmas tree shopping. There's something so hopeful about picking out a shrub, taking it home, and dressing it up, and the smell of pine permeating the house adds something that no amount of tinsel or number of garlands can. It's silly, but I find myself imagining that the trees care whether or not they get chosen, as if they're a chorus line of dancers auditioning to be Radio City Rockettes, and I study each one intently: the seven-footers that wouldn't fit through the front door, let alone in the living room; the small, spindly, sad Charlie Brown-esque trees that I almost want to choose out of pity. Tall and thin, short and fat, straight, crooked…they all get a once-over, regardless of their flaws. Sort of like arboreal speed dating.

The small lot Edward and I have stopped at is nothing special: wooden sawhorses prop up a small forest of trees in varying shapes, sizes, and species, lines of bare-bulb lights crisscross the lot, and teenage attendants mill about in felt elf and Santa hats. There's a chain-link wall near the back of the lot with a variety of wreaths festooned with Crayola-red velvet bows, and kissing balls hang from the same red ribbons beneath a hand-painted sign advertising "Fresh-Cut Trees."

Since my first year as an undergrad in Seattle when I picked out my own tree, I've developed a special appreciation for quaint little Christmas tree lots. As a kid, I spent years traipsing through the woods with Charlie – some years in calf-deep snow – to find a tree to cut down and drag back home. The last year he was alive was the last year I cut down my own tree; I don't know if it's something I could bring myself to do again. Without him. My first trek to a Christmas tree lot in Seattle was almost like the very first tradition I ever made for myself, and in the years since, it's become one of my favorites.

"What about this one?" Edward asks, lugging a tree upright from where it leans against a sawhorse.

"Too small," I say after a moment's consideration, and he eyes me skeptically before glancing back at the tree.

"It's probably close to six feet."

"Yeah, but it's scrawny."

"Scrawny?"

"Skinny. Spindly. That's a computer-geek tree."

"A computer-geek tree?"

I gesture toward the shrub he's still gripping around its trunk. "Yeah. Like…tall and skinny and not completely upright. It's…slightly hunched. It looks like Michael Cera."

"Who?"

"The geeky track-running kid from _Juno._ "

I'm pretty sure he's laughing at me when he puts it back. "Okay. So…what are we looking for, exactly?"

"Similar height, but more beefy."

"What, like a Jean-Claude Van Damme tree?" He's teasing me, but he's actually speaking my language. I'm too embarrassed to admit to or explain Alice's Christmas-trees-as-celebrities theory of selection.

I wrinkle my nose. "Nah. Too much beef. We want more like…a Ryan Gosling tree."

"A Ryan Gosling tree?"

I nod. "Nice height, nice shape, broad but not _too_ broad. We don't want to meander into Zach Galfinakis territory."

Now he's definitely laughing. "Noted. No Zach Galfinakis." We wander up another row as I rub my slowly-freezing gloved hands together. "So…that's the ideal, huh? Ryan Gosling?"

 _No, the ideal is you_ , I think before I can curb the thought, but mercifully the words don't make the trip from my brain to my tongue. Instead, I shrug. "What's not to like?"

"He seems sort of boring."

"Boring?" I echo as he stops and pulls another tree upright. I consider it. "Not bad. But maybe just a little fuller around the bottom. That one's kind of gappy."

"Gappy," he echoes, letting the tree fall back against its fellows. "This is fascinating. I'm getting a dendrology-lesson-slash-sociological-experiment in addition to a Christmas tree. So…Ryan Gosling."

He looks genuinely expectant, and I curb the urge to roll my eyes as I flash briefly back to his lingerie ogling from earlier. "Let me put it this way: Ryan Gosling is boring in the same way Kate Upton is boring."

He smirks. "Ah. Excellent comparison. I completely get your point."

Folding my arms over my chest, I half-turn so that I'm facing him. "Which is?"

"If you're taking Kate Upton home, scintillating dinner conversation isn't necessarily your number one priority."

"Gross," I mutter, even though he's pretty much nailed it, and he grins in glee.

"So…a Kate Upton tree." Now he's just baiting me, but – as usual – I'm pretty much powerless to ignore him.

"Which is?"

"Shapely. Full."

I sort of want to call him a pig, but wasn't I just doing the exact same thing? "Well, there is one other criterion that can't really be applied to the female metaphor."

"Oh?"

"A straight trunk."

His mouth pops open and his eyes widen, and Jesus Christ, but I want to kiss him right the hell now, beneath the stars and the bare bulbs and the heady scent of pine. "A _what?_ "

I gesture toward the rows of trees to either side of us. "A straight trunk."

He shifts his weight, packed dirt and loose pine needles crunching softly beneath his feet. "I didn't realize the straightness of the trunk was a key factor. I thought most people just cared about the…size. Of the tree."

I don't know if the pink in his cheeks is from the cold or the conversation, but either way, it's fucking adorable. "Size isn't everything, Edward. The trunk has to be straight, otherwise the star won't sit right."

"The star. Right."

"Also, it might tip over if the water in the base gets too low."

"Okay. Straight trunk. Not spindly. Big, but not too big." He raises his eyebrows. "Have I covered everything?"

"Nailed it," I confirm, pounding my palms together in a fruitless effort to keep blood circulating to my fingers.

"Are you cold?" he asks, eyes dropping to my hands.

"Not really. My mittens just suck."

"Here," he says, yanking his own off and holding them toward me.

"Edward, your hands will freeze."

"Nah. Plus, I'm just going to wind up getting pine sap all over them." He turns away, effectively silencing any further protests, and I slip my woolen mittens from my hands and ball them into my coat pocket before sliding my hands into his fleece-lined gloves. They're so warm, and it makes me wonder for the flash of a moment how warm his palm would feel in mine. I fall into step behind him as we round the end of one row and begin up another; about halfway up, he stops and pulls another tree upright.

"How about this one?" he asks.

"Oh," I breathe, staring at the most symmetrical, most perfect Fraser fir I've ever seen. "That's even better than a Ryan Gosling tree. That's…a Robert Redford."

His brows arch. "What, aging and drying out before our very eyes?"

"Timeless. A once-in-a-lifetime tree. It's perfect."

He looks mildly amused, but he's smiling. And standing there, holding onto perhaps the most perfect Christmas tree ever, he looks like something out of an L.L. Bean holiday catalog. His eyes match the tree, his stubbled cheeks are flushed from the cold, and the small, contented smile on his face would never let anyone believe that he spends more time than not channeling Ebenezer Scrooge. "Okay, then. Sold."

He lugs the tree toward the back of the lot, where a makeshift cash register has been set up atop a plywood stand. A guy with a crooked Santa hat and a stomach spilling over his dirt-smudged blue jeans grins as Edward passes the tree to the two boys manning the netting machine. "Can I interest you two in some mistletoe?"

Edward gives the guy a look as he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket; evidently, Scrooge is back in full force. "I run a youth home for adolescent boys. I don't think mistletoe would be entirely appropriate."

The guy eyes me, clearly unable or unwilling to take a hint. "Bet you could find another use for it, though, huh?"

"Just the tree." Edward's voice is sharp, his eyes are hard, and he thrusts a wad of bills at the guy with enough force that the man flinches.

"Happy holidays," the guy says, words and tone at odds.

"Happy Hannukah," Edward mutters, as the pair of boys ask him which car is his.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. xo**


	4. December 13: 12 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

* * *

 _Under boughs of evergreen_

 _We find a hiding spot_

 _While the other children play_

 _We pray we don't get caught._

 _Hide 'n' seeking all the day_

 _On and on into the night_

 _Til we start a snowball fight_

 _Beneath the winter moon_

 _I remember when I fell for you._

 _(Mindy Gledhill, "Winter Moon")_

* * *

 **December 13**

 **(12 days until Christmas)**

"Want to order pizza tonight?" Alice asks, rummaging in her purse for her car keys.

"Sure. I'm on at the House until six, but I'm free after."

Slender arm all but disappearing into her colossal bag, she eyes me knowingly. "Even though the semester is technically over?"

"Shut up."

Her laughter follows her to the front door, and I return my focus to the newspaper before me. Just as I'm lifting my coffee mug to my lips, though, her voice comes trilling back to the kitchen from the entryway. "Hey, there's something out here for you!"

I frown, slipping from the kitchen stool and padding through the apartment in my socked feet. I don't remember ordering anything offline, despite the fact that I'm alarmingly behind in my Christmas shopping. But when I reach where Alice is gazing at the front stoop, I spy something that clearly hasn't been delivered via UPS. There's a large, flat box expertly wrapped in shimmering gold gift wrap and adorned with a festive red bow. Beside it sits a travel mug, and when I bend to pick it up, its weight tells me that it's full. Frowning, I pick up the box as well and step back into the warmth of the apartment, shivering slightly in my thin flannel pajama bottoms and thermal shirt.

"What is it?" Alice breathes, eyes alight with curiosity and her tardiness momentarily forgotten.

"No clue," I reply, warily placing the coffee mug on the small table that houses a lamp and answering machine and, more often than not, an alarmingly large stack of unopened mail. My first instinct is to dump whatever's inside the mug down the sink because I don't care what's in the box – there is no way in hell I'm drinking something that was left on my doorstep. Plucking the bow from the box, I stick it to the table; as I move to peel the thick wrapping paper from the parcel, I spy a small card peeking out from beneath the bow. Diverting for a moment, I reach out for the tiny red envelope that has my name printed on it in shimmery gold ink and tear it open. Inside is a small card in heavy ivory cardstock; when I open it, the writing inside is in the same gold script.

 _Dear Bella,_

 _With twelve days 'til Christmas…I didn't think you'd take too kindly to being serenaded by twelve drummers. Nor, I suspect, would your neighbors._

 _That said, you once told me that coconut-filled chocolates are your favorite things in the world._

 _You're mine._

 _Merry Christmas._

I read the letter four times before I even remotely grasp its implications. And immediately, my heart begins to race.

"Do you think it's from Emmett?" Alice asks from where she's apparently been reading the card over my shoulder.

I turn, silently cursing the fact that the first face that floated through my mind was my boss's and not my far-more-likely ex-boyfriend's.

"I have no idea," I reply, even though her guess seems likely. Emmett would always buy me chocolate when he thought I was having a bad day, and he knows that the coconut-filled ones are my weakness. Still, the penmanship is foreign – not Emmett's neat, blockish print, but not Edward's serial-killer-esque scrawl, either – and the wrap is more elegant than I'd expect of either of them. "Probably," I add, setting the card on the table and slipping my finger beneath the elegant wrapping paper. When I peel it off, there's a flat box with a gold lid. When I open it, I'm faced with a tray of what I can only guess are, in fact, coconut-filled chocolates. And, judging by the fact that each one is individually wrapped in gold foil, they're not the working man's version I occasionally treat myself to, but the real, fancy McCoy.

"Damn," Alice says, eyes pinging between my face and the tray of indulgence before me.

"Want one?" I ask, holding it toward her.

She wrinkles her nose. "No, thanks. Not a coconut fan."

I shrug, lifting one from the tray. "What are the odds that some psycho left these on our doorstep and I'm going to drop dead of some kind of poisoning if I eat one?" My concern, I admit, is probably offset by the fact that I'm already peeling the wrapper off.

"And that this unknown psycho knew they were your favorite?" Alice asks. "Pretty slim."

"Terrific," I say, popping it into my mouth. Then, through a mouthful of chocolately, coconutty awesomeness, I add, "Holy shit."

"Good?"

"Oh my God." I pick up the card again, and even though I'm pretty sure I've never told Edward about my affinity for coconut chocolates, and even though I know for a fact that I _did_ tell Emmett, my heart hopes. In the unlikely face of elegant gift wrap and gorgeous calligraphy and chocolates that probably cost more than a ticket to Wrigley Field, I hope.

"You could always thank him by making that exact sound for him in person," Alice grins, and I begin to blush before realizing that she's still talking about Emmett.

"Go to work, Alice."

"You're right. I'll leave you two – er, twelve – alone." She gives me a smirk and disappears out the door.

And, left to my own devices, I treat myself to four more in lieu of a more traditional breakfast. Hello, season of indulgence.

* * *

"Look up when you walk, Isabella." It was a familiar refrain in the six years I spent under my mother's roof; one of the too-numerous-to-count things that I did that always seemed to irritate her was walking with my head down. I couldn't say for certain whether I ignored her advice out of spite or if walking with my head down was simply meant to be how I fumbled my way through life, but when a snowball hits me smack in the chest as I'm walking up the stone walkway to the front steps of Grove House, still ruminating over my mysterious gift, it's possibly the first time in my life that I wish, however fleetingly, that I'd listened to my mother.

"What the—"

"Language!" I hear before the expletive can fall from my lips, and I look up to see Edward half-crouched behind the porch railing, a snowball in his hand and a cheeky grin on his face.

"What are you—" My words are cut off by another snowball hitting me between the shoulder blades, and I spin to see Jake half-obscured by a shrub. He's grinning, and the expression is so foreign on his usually serious face that I can't help but return it. He's cocking his arm back to let another clump of soggy snow fly when he's hit in the chest, a shower of white exploding against his jacket.

"Direct hit!" I hear from behind me, and I whirl again to see Sam on the opposite side of the yard. In that instant, I realize that I'm smack in the middle of a snowball fight, and as I glance up at Edward again, he grins down at me before letting his own snowball fly. I duck just in time for it to sail over my head and smash against the concrete, and I drop my messenger bag on the sidewalk before dashing over to Sam who, I assume from his shot at Jake, is on my team. "You, me, Seth, and Riley against Edward, Mike, Jake, and James," he says as I scrape powder into clumps.

"Got it," I say, grabbing a snowball in each hand and making a dash for a large bush.

What ensues is snowball-hurling chaos, and almost immediately my inadequate gloves are soaked through and my hands frozen. I'm hurling snowballs from numb fingers as quickly as I can, and Sam and I manage to keep each other alert as James creeps around the yard with the stealthy silence of a lion hunting its prey, launching projectiles before his opponents even spot him. Riley is attempting the same subterfuge with marginal success. When I feel a snowball burst against the back of my neck and clumps of ice slide down my spine, I howl. Edward's answering laugh is loud enough that Sam gets him in the shoulder with a particularly large snowball almost immediately. The battle rages for a good fifteen minutes before James attempts to catch Jake unaware; Jake spins just in time to see him approaching and launches himself at him, taking a half-formed snowball and flattening it against the top of James's head. Riley, Seth, and Sam join in and the snowball fight morphs into a snow-wrestling match with giant boys rolling around in the snow and attempting to mash each other's faces into the packed powder and dump handfuls down each other's shirts. Unwilling to miss the fun, I hit a sprint in their direction, but before I can launch myself on top of the pile I'm tackled to the ground and pinned beneath Edward.

I gaze up into his face, breathing hard and feeling a flash of heat rush through me even as the cold from the snow seeps through my jeans and my hair. "Where do you think you're going?" he demands, grinning down at me, and I attempt to catch my breath. His nose, ears, and cheeks are flushed bright pink, and his eyes are the color of evergreens. He is holding his upper body propped with gloved hands planted in the snow on either side of my head, and his lips are red from the cold. "An all-out melee of boys is no place for a girl."

"Nice hair," I mock him, flicking my eyes up to the ice-caked strands. "Looks like some 'girl' hit you pretty square in the melon."

He laughs, and I can feel it rumble through his body, which is pressed along the length of mine. "Touché."

I lick my lips to wet them, knowing I'm going to need ChapStik after this little event, and almost instantly his eyes drop to my mouth. The light teasing is gone from his face, something in his smile softening as he stares down at me, and we breathe against each other for a few beats before he rolls off me. "Jesus, it's cold out here," he says, eyes traveling to where the rest of the boys have resorted to halfhearted shoves and lazy lobs of ill-formed handfuls of snow; after a few more breaths they all collapse into the snow, breathing hard. Edward rubs his gloved hands through his hair, and a shower of small snow clumps falls to his lap as I pull myself to sitting in the snow beside him.

"Boys," I mutter, wrapping my arms around my knees. "You guys never grow up, do you?" But this is the first time I've ever seen all of them – Edward included – act like kids, and my tone is far more affectionate than reproachful.

"Nope," he says, and I can tell by looking at him that he's thinking along the same lines I am. "We never do." But there's a wistful note to his voice and a faint trace of melancholy in his eyes, and I follow his gaze to where the boys are standing and attempting to brush the snow and ice from their clothing. When I peek back at the man next to me, at the adult whose insides are still one of those parentless, homeless, lonely boys covered in snow, the words we don't share pierce my heart.

They never grow up. But sometimes life does its best to force them to do so too quickly.

. . .

My soggy mittens are draped over the radiator in the kitchen and my hair is only slightly damp – the only lingering evidence of the battle on the front lawn an hour earlier. The world is growing dark beyond the windows, and the kitchen smells of nothing but sugar, thanks to the sheet of cookies already in the oven.

There's a smear of flour at the stubbled curve of Edward's jaw, and it's taking every ounce of willpower I possess not to wipe it – or lick it – off.

"How much longer?"

I laugh, stirring the bowl of flour, walnuts, salt, and sugar as I glance at the clock above the oven. "About two more minutes."

Edward heaves a sigh, eyeing the bowl on the counter before me. "And those ones are called what?"

"Well, that depends. Some people call them Russian tea cakes, some people call them Mexican wedding cookies, and some people call them nut balls."

"Nut balls?" he echoes, one eyebrow arched as he gives me a skeptical look, and I laugh again, borderline giddy from the sugar and the season and the proximity of the man beside me.

"Yeah. I tend to call them snowball cookies. More seasonal. And descriptive."

"Hm."

"Can you measure me out a teaspoon of vanilla?" I ask, tipping my head toward the small bottle of extract on the counter and reaching for the bowl of softened butter near my elbow. He does as asked, an adorable furrow appearing between his thick brows as he maneuvers the tiny measuring spoon and miniature bottle in his large hands, and when he holds it out toward me, I nod at the bowl. "Go ahead." He tips it in and I add the butter in segments before pushing the bowl toward him. "Okay. Mix."

He glances around the counter. "Spoon or mixer?"

"Hands." When surprised eyes find mine, I grin. "Just…squish it together until it looks sort of…mealy."

"This is why I hired a cook, you know," he grouses as he pushes his sleeves farther up his arms, leaving faint traces of flour on both of his forearms.

"I don't think this is in her job description," I argue. "Besides, Christmas cookies are fun."

He's opening his mouth – no doubt to argue – when the oven timer dings and all traces of grouchiness vanish from his eyes, which widen as they fly to me. "They're done!"

Trying unsuccessfully to hide my smile, I grab the potholder from the corner of the counter and cross the kitchen to the oven. "Let me check." I turn on the oven light and peek in; sure enough, the sugar cookies are baked perfectly golden. "Yep. Done." I switch off the timer and bend to pull the sheets from the racks; as I straighten and place them atop the stove, I can feel Edward's presence at my back. Suddenly, his flour-dusted forearm appears over my shoulder, and I swat at it before he can do himself harm.

"Dork. Those are hot."

"They're the best when they're hot," he argues, making another move to swipe one, and I swat him again, this time with the potholder.

"Warm," I correct him. "If you wind up with a second-degree burn on your tongue, your cookie binge is going to be quickly and tragically derailed."

He pouts, an expression that shouldn't be nearly so attractive on a grown man, and retreats back to the bowl of half-mixed snowball cookies. "I'm giving them two minutes, tops, to cool."

I watch him mix the batter for a minute, the muscles of his shoulders shifting beneath his long-sleeved, dark gray thermal shirt, his forearms flexing as he squeezes, before I resituate myself beside him. "Can I ask you a question?" I ask thirty seconds into his two minutes of allotted cooling time.

"Shoot," he says, eyes trained on the bowl.

"What's with the Scrooge act?"

I feel him look at me, but I keep my own focus trained on the peanut butter blossom recipe on the counter in front of me. I haven't made these cookies more than a couple of times, and as a result the ingredients aren't ingrained in my mind like the two batches we've already got in progress. "Scrooge act?" he repeats, and there's a careful, guarded tenor to his voice that I know too well.

"Yeah," I reply, my tone purposely casual. "Like, you pretend you hate Christmas, but then you get ridiculously into things like snowball fights and Christmas cookies. So I know you don't hate it nearly as much as you pretend to." I glance up at him, and his evergreen eyes are back on the batter bowl in front of him, the movements of his hands suddenly very deliberate. He's quiet for long enough that I'm convinced he's not going to answer. "Sorry," I say finally, feeling equal parts disappointed and guilty at my apparent faux pas. The few glimpses of excited Edward I've been privy to over the past week or so have been unexpected treasures, like the extra gift you find hiding behind the Christmas tree on Boxing Day, and I realize suddenly that by pointing them out to him, I've likely done nothing but ensure that I won't see one again. Just as I'm searching for a graceful change of subject, he speaks, his voice soft.

"I don't hate Christmas." The muscles in his forearm are tensing as he squeezes the dough, and it's mixed more than enough, but I don't have the heart to stop him. "And I don't love it, either. I sort of…" Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. "I guess I have sort of a love-hate relationship with the holidays."

"Love-hate?" I repeat carefully, focusing resolutely on my recipe card.

He sighs. "When I was six, I woke up on Christmas Eve because I heard a thump." He reaches up and scratches the hinge of his jaw, fingers leaving another smear of flour in their wake. "I thought it was Santa. There weren't any windows in my bedroom, so I went out into the hall, hoping I could see outside. I thought maybe I'd see a sleigh or a reindeer or something." My heart aches already at the foreboding disappointment in his voice. "It wasn't until I got out there that I realized the sound wasn't coming from the roof, but from the room next to mine." A pause. "My mother's room." The dough before him is mixed to within an inch of its life, but he keeps kneading. "I pushed her door open just as my father was chucking her against the wall again. When he saw me standing in the doorway, he asked what the hell I thought I was doing out of bed. When I explained that I thought I heard Santa on the roof, he said, 'There's no such fucking thing as Santa' and told me to get my ass back in bed." He shakes his head as if he's shaking the memory off, but my heart aches for the six-year-old that he was. "Then, when I was twelve, my mom OD'ed on Christmas Eve. For the last time." I swallow against the knot of tears that has formed at the base of my throat, but when he looks up and into my face, he smiles softly. "And then, the following year, the week before Christmas, I tried to steal a coat from the Salvation Army. And I met Esme." Suddenly, as if realizing that the dough in his hands has been mangled, he drops it into the bowl with an audible "plop" and props his hands on the lip of the counter. His eyes find mine, and he's daring me to feel sorry for him. "So. Like I said. Love-hate."

"That's…entirely understandable," I say, staring at the jar of Jif on the counter before me. What I sort of want to say is that it's a miracle that he can still love it at all, with memories like those. That the fact that he does is a clear example of the man he is: optimistic, caring, warm-hearted. That I respect him more than I think I've ever respected anyone in my life, save Charlie.

And that I might actually _love_ him – not just want him, not just have a crush on him – and never has it been more clear to me than in this moment.

. . .

"Oh my _God_ ," Alice breathes, biting into a snowball cookie. "I forgot how amazing these are. Why don't you ever make them except at Christmas? Wait, no, strike that – if you made these all year long, I'd _look_ like Santa Claus. Forget I said anything."

I laugh, zipping up another tiny plastic bag holding a tiny red pom-pom ball, a googly eye, a small curl of red ribbon, half a red pipe cleaner, and a tiny square of brown construction paper. "What are these going to be, again?"

Alice's small hands reach for one of the aforementioned supplies from each tiny pile and begin to construct a mock-up of the craft she's planning to do with her kindergarten class tomorrow. A nearly empty pizza box sits abandoned on the coffee table behind us, and _National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation_ plays silently on the glowing television screen in the corner.

"Well, they're going to trace their hands and make a cutout with the brown paper. The red pom-pom is the nose, the eye is self-explanatory, and the pipe cleaner is for the antlers. The ribbon's going through a small hole we'll punch in its back, and voila!" she announces. "Rudolph ornament!"

I smile, even as my mind floats back to the ugly handmade ornaments Charlie would proudly display on our tree every year. A macaroni Christmas wreath heavy enough to be a paperweight that always had to be hung from the thickest branch. A tiny Christmas tree made out of loops of green construction paper. A candy cane made from a bent pipe cleaner and a handful of red and white beads. A pinecone angel.

"Those will look cute," I say, pulling myself forcibly away from the memory.

"I hope so," Alice replies, looking faintly dubious as she eyes the supplies around us. "Though I'm sure I'll have more than one Rudolph with its nose stuck to its butt."

I laugh, the sudden pang of melancholy chased away. "Probably."

She grins, starting to fill another little baggie. "So. Any sudden inspiration as to your mystery gift this morning?"

I shrug, reaching for another plastic bag. "You were right. It's probably Emmett."

"But you're hoping it wasn't."

Filling the bag, I chew on my lip. "Emmett's really great. But I don't—" I trail off, unsure. I don't what? I don't want to date him. I don't want to love him. I don't want to be with just anyone when my heart is so desperately aching for a specific _someone_. I zip the bag closed and add it to the box of finished ones. "I just don't feel that way about him."

"Because you just don't, or because of Edward?"

"I don't know," I admit. And suddenly, I want to talk about it, to get it all out of me, to free the words and the doubts and the wondering and the longing that feel like they're chewing at my insides. "I mean, I don't know if I'm just hardcore crushing on him because he's smart and sexy and serious, and if someone perfect for me came along, I'd get over it, or whether I'm really…" But I can't. I can't say that out loud. It's too ridiculous.

"In love with him?" Alice finishes, sharing none of my fear of ridiculousness.

"You can't be in love with someone you've never even kissed," I argue with only half a heart, and Alice shakes her head.

"Bullshit." I'm surprised by the strength in her voice.

"What?"

"Loving someone doesn't have to do with kissing them, or screwing them, or anything else physical. That's attraction. That's lust. That's chemistry. But love is different. Love is…" She breaks off, frowning at the brown square of cardboard in her hand. "Love is about…who do you want to spend time with, when there's nothing to do? When you're just… _being_ together, doing nothing. Like…reading the newspaper. Or cleaning out the refrigerator. It's easy to want to kiss someone and screw someone and get all the romantic stuff. That's simple. But love is more than that. Love is…respecting someone for who he is. Knowing the awesome stuff but also the not-so-awesome stuff and still wanting him regardless. Wanting to be around someone when there's nothing romantic about it. And if you can know the answer to that without ever having done anything physical with him, then…yes, you can absolutely be in love with someone you've never kissed. You don't have to know that side of a person to love who he is."

When I look up from the pipe cleaner I've been twisting in my hands, Alice's eyes are fierce. And expectant.

I blow out a breath. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. In love with him."

"You really don't know?" Her voice is gentle, but I can hear her teacher's scolding voice beneath it. _Tell the truth, Bella._

"I know," I whisper, feeling at once relieved and utterly spent. "I do know." When I look down at the pipe cleaner, I realize it's twisted into the crude shape of a heart.

"I know you do."

"I just don't know what to _do_ about it."

"Yeah," my friend agrees, her voice soft. "Me either."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. xo**


	5. December 14: 11 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

* * *

 **December 14**

 **(Eleven days until Christmas)**

When I wake up the next morning with a scratchy throat and a splitting headache, I groan into my pillow. I'm supposed to meet with Edward for a sort of pre-interview prep session at ten, but I know as soon as I attempt to swallow and feel like I've ingested flaming samurai swords that I'm not going anywhere. Fumbling on the nightstand for my cell phone, I dial Edward's number.

When he answers on the second ring, his voice is oddly scratchy and sleepy, and if I weren't feeling like death warmed over, I'd likely take advantage of the fact that I'm still in bed to have a little fun with the visual his rumbly voice provides. As it is, I'm too sick to even muster up the enthusiasm for that.

"Hey," I croak.

"I'm sorry, is that Al Green? How'd you get this number?"

"Very funny."

The teasing disappears from his voice. "Jesus, Bella, you sound like hell."

"Funny, that's exactly what I feel like."

"What's wrong?"

"I have no idea, but I'm going to go ahead and blame you and your little army of snowball soldiers."

"The idea that you can get sick from being cold is a myth, actually."

"Yeah, well, tell that to my throat."

"I'm sorry. Can I do anything?"

"No. I just wanted to let you know why I won't be at our meeting this morning."

"Okay." There's a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is slightly muffled. I can't stop my brain from wondering if he's in bed, and on the heels of that, I can't stop it from wondering a hell of a lot more. What color and fabric are his sheets? Does he sleep in pajamas? Boxers? Nothing at all? Does he have a favorite side of the bed? Is there a book on his nightstand? "Bella?" I realize, at the sound of my name, that I've spaced out completely and missed whatever preceded it.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, do you need anything? Can I bring you anything?"

"Do you even know where I live?" I'll blame the fact that I feel like utter crap for that rather inelegant response to his considerate question. That, and the memory of a box of chocolates on my doorstep may have had something to do with my curiosity.

"I do have your home address. And a GPS."

"Oh. Right."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Wow, you really are sick. You're normally a lot quicker on the uptake than this."

"Bite me."

"No, thanks. God knows how many germs I'd get." And now I'm thinking about him biting me, which is leading to thoughts of his mouth on my body in other, more interesting ways. And places. "I was asking if there's anything I could bring you."

"Not unless you can bring me another head. And throat." _Aaaaand let's just go ahead and pretend I didn't just say "head" and "throat" in the same sentence._ Edward's pause is just a fraction of a second too long for me not to wonder whether his brain went to the same place mine can't seem to stay away from.

"I'm afraid not," he says finally.

"Thanks anyway. Can we reschedule?"

"Of course. What time is the interview tomorrow?"

"Two o'clock. I could come by in the morning?"

"Okay. I'm meeting a potential intern at eighty-thirty, so…sometime after nine?"

"Okay," I say, unable to quell the flood of envy, insecurity, sadness I feel at his allusion – however theoretical – to my replacement. "Okay," I say again. "So…see you tomorrow, then."

"Okay. Feel better, Bella."

"Thanks."

I hang up and bury my face in my pillow, feeling too rotten and depressed and sorry for myself to even let my brain enjoy the few pervy thoughts to which that phone call treated it. I spend most of the morning wallowing; though I do relocate from my bed to the sofa, I largely avoid movement, and the sea of wadded-up tissues and cough drop wrappers around me grows nearly as steadily as the snow falling outside. I'm cocooned in my favorite blanket, one that used to live on the back of the couch at home. Charlie's home. It's red and green plaid, so it feels especially fitting at Christmas. There's a tiny hole in one corner, and my heart trips once to think about having to throw it away someday. Will I get to keep anything I love?

The morning passes with movies for company.

 _Miracle on 34th Street._

 _The Santa Clause._

 _The Family Stone._

At lunchtime Alice appears, utilizing the thirty-minute window she has to drive all the way home to check on me. "I brought ice cream," she says, and I hear the freezer door's vacuum seal squeak as she opens it.

"Thanks," I reply, wincing as the word is ripped from my throat. She gives me a pitying look when she appears in the doorway between the living room and kitchen.

"Also, _this_ was on the doorstep." With her toe, she nudges into view an enormous green tin canister with a Norman Rockwell painting of Santa Claus on the side of it and a giant red bow on top.

"What is it?"

"Popcorn," she says, frowning down at the bucket before bending and plucking a small square of paper from beneath the bow. When she hands it to me, all I see is my name.

"What the hell?"

"Must be from your 'admirer,'" she says, skepticism sitting heavy on the word.

"Swell."

"Do you want Jasper to ask him to stop?"

I shake my swimming head. "No. It's…whatever. I'll talk to him."

"Okay." But she doesn't leave, and when I look up, her eyes sparkle with possibility. "What are the odds?"

"Slim to none." For so many reasons, not the least of which being that I spoke to him a few scant hours ago, and I can't imagine he'd drop a tub of popcorn on the doorstep like no big deal knowing that (a) the mere thought of eating anything right now makes me cringe and (b) I'm in here dying.

"Really?" Her disappointment – that of a child denied his Christmas wish – nearly rivals my own.

"Yeah," I say, completely lacking the energy for another round of dissection of my relationship – or lack thereof – with Edward. Emmett knows all too well my obsession with popcorn; not a single movie night passed without me scarfing down a tub the size of a trash can. It's all but impossible that it's anyone else, no matter how badly I wish otherwise.

"Oh." When I don't say anything more, she knots her white scarf back around her neck. "Can I do anything?" Her concern is evident, and I shake my head.

"I'm okay." Her frown deepens, even as she glances at the clock on the wall. "Seriously. I'm fine."

"You don't _look_ fine. You look terrible."

"Well, thanks."

"Sorry. But seriously. Are you sure you don't need to go to the doctor?"

I shake my head again, regretting it immediately. My lack of complete medical coverage makes me cringe to imagine the bill. "I just need a day to recover."

"Okay," she says again. "Well, call me if you need me. I'll be here in a nanosecond."

"Thanks, Al."

"And Jasper. You can call Jasper, too. I told him you were sick."

I'd never in a million years ask Alice's boyfriend to wait on me, but the simple fact that he's offered makes warmth suffuse my chest. "Thank you," I say again, meaning it doubly this time. "You guys are great."

She winces at the raw sound of my voice. "Maybe…don't talk."

"Then maybe…go back to work." I smile when she rolls her eyes and waves, disappearing through the front door. I shiver at the blast of cold air that seeps in before she slams it shut – and locks it, God bless her – behind her.

Returning my focus to the television, I let myself doze through _A Christmas Story_ , which I've never much liked, before propping myself up when Charlie's favorite comes on the screen.

 _Elf_.

As Will Ferrell plays hopscotch on a New York City crosswalk, I remember going to the movies to see it with my dad, the first time in years we'd been to the theater together, and the first time in longer that Charlie had been at all. He chuckled through it, and as I giggled right alongside him, I remember feeling so lucky for things I wasn't quite old enough to articulate. Just…feeling the special kind of lucky that comes with being happy and wanting for very little.

Three years later, he was gone.

 _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ is next in the movie lineup, and Jim Carrey is just trying to find an outfit for the Whobilation when the doorbell rings. Glancing in dismay at the sea of disgustingness around me, I consider not answering.

Another knock.

"Ugh. Okay, okay," I croak-mutter, rising from the sofa and hugging the blanket tightly around my shoulders. My head pounds in protest at being upright, and I steady myself on the arm of the couch for a second before making my way toward the door. When I open it, I'm stunned to see Shelly Cope standing on the doorstep.

"Oh, dear." Her dismay at my appearance makes me feel suddenly embarrassed, but before I can come up with any form of excuse or apology, she's bustling me backward into the apartment, pushing the door closed behind her. "It's awful out there." Snowflakes dot the shoulders of her coat and the red knit hat she's wearing, and her nose is pink from the cold. Her white curls peek out from beneath the hat and her blue eyes sparkle, and I may be slightly delirious, but she doesn't look totally _unlike_ Mrs. Claus. "In you go," she says, guiding me back toward the living room, and it's sort of strange, having Shelly Cope in my home. Still, as she helps me resettle on the sofa and collects my revolting tissues and wrappers with absolutely no indication that she's even remotely disgusted, I let myself melt back into the couch cushions. "Now, then." She reaches into the massive carrier bag I hadn't realized she was holding and produces a small jar of Vicks VapoRub, a bag of honey and lemon cough drops, and a massive box of tissues with aloe lotion, and lines them up on the end table. "Are you warm enough?" I nod dumbly, clutching the blanket around me. I'm wearing fleece pants and a thermal top and ski socks, and while I certainly feel like hell, I feel like warm hell. "Good." She reaches into the bag again and produces a Tupperware tub of what looks like chicken noodle soup. "This is still warm, but could probably use a reheat. Do you mind if I use the kitchen?"

"Of course not, Shelly, but you don't have to do that. I can—"

"Nonsense," she says, waving her hand. "My kids have been on the West Coast for years, and Lord knows Edward doesn't let me carry on around him when he's sick." She halts. "But…am I overstepping? I do that sometimes. You just have to tell me. I'm old; I don't infer so well."

I laugh. Shelly is the no-bullshit grandmother I always wanted, and I didn't realize how truly pathetic and lonely I'd been feeling until she arrived. "No. You're not overstepping at all."

She nods once and disappears into the kitchen. It occurs to me that perhaps I should get up and help her find a pot and a spoon, but the short trip to the front door has zapped all of my reserve energy, and I settle back into the sofa cushions, listening to all the Whos down in Whoville sing their Whoville Christmas Song as little Cindy Lou, the Christmas spirit personified, takes the Grinch by the hand. I must drift off, because the next thing I'm aware of is Shelly hovering over me, setting a bowl of steaming soup on the coffee table and opening the box of tissues.

"Thank you so much, Shelly," I manage, my throat aching, and she gives me a sympathetic look.

"I'm sure it hurts to swallow, but the heat will help. And it will help to have something in your stomach."

"Okay." To my surprise, she reaches out and places a cool hand against my forehead.

"No fever," she declares, and I shake my head. I don't even own a thermometer, but I didn't feel feverish. Just…crappy. "How about we try some soup, dear?" I nod and let her help me scoot forward on the couch, accepting the steaming bowl and enjoying the warm feel of the porcelain against my palms. "There we go," she murmurs as I take a bite, and for a brief moment, I miss Charlie with a renewed pang. He wasn't exactly the nursing type, but whenever I was sick as a kid, he'd make me a bed on the living room sofa and run to the diner for chicken noodle soup. My mom was never the doting type, and I didn't realize until this moment how much I'd missed being…parented.

"Tell Edward I'm sorry," I say when half the bowl is gone, and Shelly's eyebrows lift in confusion.

"Sorry?"

"For missing our meeting. He was going to help me get ready for my interview."

"Ah. With social services."

"Right."

She nods, a small hum in her throat. "They'll be lucky to have you. You've been a blessing to the House, Bella."

"Thank you."

I'm looking down when she speaks again, and I nearly miss her question. "Has he told you that?"

I look up. "What?"

"Edward. Has he told you how invaluable you've been?"

My mind flashes to his heartfelt declaration during our shopping trip, and I nod. "He has."

The surprise is evident on Shelly's face, and I bite back a smile. "Oh. Well…good."

"You're surprised."

"A little bit. He's very…reserved with his feelings."

"Yes."

She's watching me with shrewd eyes, and I break our gaze to finish my soup. The subject of Edward is dropped, and Shelly rises from the couch to check the thermostat, bring me the small garbage can from the bathroom for my tissues, rinse out my soup bowl, and put the rest of the broth in the fridge. "Can I help you with anything else?" she asks, and when I peer up at her, I realize that the snow is really coming down beyond the window behind her.

"No, thank you, Shelly, you've been great. But…it's really starting to come down out there. You should get home."

"Oh, I'm not going home. I'm headed back to the House."

"Oh." I feel suddenly guilty for taking her away from her shift – and at dinnertime, too. "Shoot. I stole you at mealtime. I'm not going to be very popular with the boys."

"Nonsense," she says, waving a hand. "Edward is more than capable of stirring spaghetti sauce. And besides, he's the one who sent me."

I can't be bothered to hide my surprise. "Edward?"

A sly smile slips over that Mrs. Claus face. "He may not be forthcoming with his words, but I'm sure you've heard the old adage, 'Actions speak louder.'" I don't say anything, and she grins. "Well. Feel better, Bella. I hope we see you tomorrow."

For the next hour, I drift in and out of sleep, _Elf_ giving way to _Christmas in Connecticut_ , the snow falling steadily outside and the soup doing wonders to warm me from the inside out. My throat, while still sore, has lost the fire from earlier, and my head, while tender, is swimming less and aching only slightly. When the ringing phone cuts through my haze of laziness, I'm able to stand with minimal swaying and shuffle to the phone on the wall in the kitchen, blinking in the harsh overhead light.

"Hello?" I croak.

"Hello, is this Bella Swan?"

"Yes, it is."

"Hello Bella, my name is Angela Cheney. I'm calling in response to an application you submitted for employment with Rochester House. Are you still interested in a position?"

"Oh. Wow. Um. Yes. Yes, I'm definitely still interested."

"Wonderful. We were very impressed with your transcripts and resume; Grove House has such a wonderful reputation."

"Yes," I say, trying desperately not to sound like I'm on the verge of passing out. Being upright is proving to be quite the challenge. I realize that I probably sound like a chain smoker and attempt to clear my throat.

"Is everything all right?"

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I have a bit of a cold."

"Oh!" she says, then, "Oh, I'm sorry. Well, let me just tell you a little bit about us, and then we can schedule a time to talk again? And if that goes well, we'd like to bring you in for a face-to-face interview."

"That would be great," I croak.

"Well, just to give you our spiel, The Home for Little Travelers as a whole offers services that include early intervention and prevention, foster care and adoption, clinical services, residential care, special education, and home-based family support. Rochester House, in particular, is a group home for adolescents between fourteen and eighteen years of age; the House aids them in preparing to either return to families or foster care, or to live independently. From your application and letter, I can see that you have quite a bit of experience in most of those fields already, which is great."

I nod at the wall, thinking about my experience. About the boys at Grove House, about Shelly and Sam and Rosalie and Edward.

"I won't ask you questions today; I recently had a nasty bout with laryngitis, so you have my deepest empathy. Perhaps we could touch base on Monday?"

"Monday would be perfect," I say, and Angela gives me her phone number in case I need to reschedule.

When I hang up, my already swimming mind is utterly adrift. The Home for Little Travelers is exactly what I want, on a large scale. The number of kids – and families – they help is incredible; to be part of it would no doubt be immensely rewarding and would enable me to do exactly what I want to do full-time. And even if the position with Rochester House didn't turn out to be what I wanted long-term, it would get my toe in the door of one of the best facilities in the country. Basically, it's either my dream job, or the open doorway leading to it.

I think about moving again. About starting a new life again. About making new friends, living in a new place, starting over from scratch. I wonder, not for the first time, what my life would look like if I hadn't lost Charlie when I did. Would I have stayed in Washington? Would I be more settled? Would I feel less inclined to live on the opposite coast, if I had someone who still felt like home?

 _Home._

The word drops like an anvil in the depths of my stomach when I think about it. What feels like home to me now? A roommate who's five minutes away from getting engaged and moving into a new phase of life. A supervisor whose feelings for me are indistinct, but who has never given any indication that we'll even be in each other's lives in a few months' time. What else? A car I can't bear to part with, even though it's less than ideal for the climate? A borderline-threadbare plaid blanket? Memories of Christmases past?

It isn't until I flick the kitchen light off that I register the rhythmic scraping noise coming from outside. When I peek through the drapes, through the curtain of falling snow, I see a familiar figure shoveling our walkway, a bag of rock salt sitting nearby. I don't know how long I stand watching before Edward looks up and sees me in the window. We stare at each other for a minute before he shrugs and points back toward my living room, urging me to go back inside.

"Thank you," I mouth, but he turns and resumes shoveling, my words lost to darkness and distance.

That night, adrift in a sea of NyQuil, I dream of Charlie wearing a Santa hat and driving a sleigh with flashing blue and red lights. In the sack beside him is a Barbie Dream House, but it's in shades of white and yellow and has a keycode box beside the front door.

* * *

 _This is my winter song to you_

 _The storm is coming soon_

 _It rolls in from the sea_

 _My love a beacon in the night_

 _My words will be your light_

 _To carry you to me_

 _Is love alive?_

 _This is my winter song_

 _December never felt so wrong_

' _Cause you're not where you belong_

 _Inside my arms._

 _(Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson, "Winter Song")_

* * *

 **Thanks, as always, for reading and for all the love. Wishing you all the wonder of the season. xo**


	6. December 15: 10 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

. . .

 **A/N: Current state of affairs: last night, I wrapped both the tape dispenser AND scissors inside a gift box. Needless to say, the mistakes in this are ALLLLLLL mine. Thanks to Buboobear for pointing out the continuity error in the last chapter! (This is why HollettLA is my usual savior.)  
**

* * *

 **December 15**

 **(Ten days until Christmas)**

When I let myself into the foyer of Grove House the next morning, a surprising sight greets me: our Robert Redford tree, aglow. There are no ornaments, granted, but there are strings of white lights and multicolored lights making it glow softly in its corner, and it's a toss-up as to which is the prettier sight: the tree now, illuminated, or the tree a few days ago propped up by Edward, pink-cheeked and smiling.

The Christmas crazy in me wants to vote for the former, but the besotted idiot in me is lobbying pretty hard for the latter. I stand gazing at it for a beat longer before making my way to Edward's office.

"You decorated Redford."

Edward looks up from his desk, glasses in place, face in ever-thickening stubble. "I did no such thing." But his eyes are alight with mischief, and he's battling a smile.

"Then who did?"

He shrugs. "Aren't you the type of girl who's in the habit of believing in elves?"

"I'm the type of girl in the habit of believing in the infectious spirit of the season."

He wrinkles his nose. "You make it sound like a virus."

"You're a virus."

He grins, gleeful at his perceived victory in this round. "Also…are we really referring to our tree as 'Redford'?"

"Do you have a better suggestion?"

"As to a name for a tree?" His incredulity is its own brand of teasing, but I ignore it.

"Yes."

"I do not."

"Then Redford it is."

That hint of a smile again. It'd be the undoing of me if he wanted it to be. If I let it. "Fine."

"Thank you."

He pulls his glasses off – right ear first, then left – before dropping them on the papers in front of him and leaning back in his chair, raising his arms up and folding his hands atop his head. Blue sweater today. Navy corduroy elbow patches. Christ on a cracker. "For?"

"Shelly. Shoveling." I smile. "Shtuff."

"I do appreciate a girl who alliterates." He grins, then his smile goes soft at the edges, all traces of teasing vanished. "Feeling better, then."

"Miraculously." And I do. My head feels like its normal size, my throat, while a tad scratchy, doesn't throb or feel like I attempted to swallow embers from a fireplace, and my once-streaming nose is very nearly behaving itself.

"Good."

"How are things here?"

"Oh, y'know. The usual. Water heater might be on its last legs."

I wince in sympathy. Edward had been hoping to eke one last winter out of that thing before it went belly-up. "Are you going to call Foster's before Christmas?"

"Debating." He waves a hand in dismissal. "But you've got more important things to worry about. Have a seat, Ms. Swan." His friendly smile is at odds with the mock-formal voice he's adopted, and I smile as I slip into the visitor's chair on the other side of his desk, dumping my bag on the floor beside it. Momentarily, I flash back to the first time I met Edward, when I did this exact thing as his potential intern a year and a half ago. I'm debating whether I was more dazzled by him then or now, but decide it's a toss-up: in the beginning, he was surface-sexy, and now, he's bone-deep, complicated, friend-sexy. The first is fun, light, simple. The second keeps me awake nights.

"So. Why do you want to work for the Department of Child and Family Services?" I can't quite tell if he's actually asking me as Edward, or if this is a part of my interview prep. To be safe, I launch into a genuine answer, relieved to find that it doesn't deviate much either way. It solidifies something in my mind – I feel like I'm on the right path, listening to myself answer Edward's question.

He straightens in his chair, a small smile on his face. He lobs up a few more questions that I volley back with increasing confidence, and I'm just feeling like I've nailed this when he asks one that throws me for a loop. "What other offers are you considering?"

I frown. "Are we still mock-interviewing?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. But really, I'm just curious."

"The Home for Little Travelers."

His eyebrows jump. "Boston?"

"Yeah. I mean, I haven't got an offer. Just a phone interview. Rochester House. And then, possibly, a face-to-face, depending."

"Wow." He leans back again. "They have a great reputation."

"They do."

"I researched them a lot when I was laying out the plans for this place."

"I know."

We're quiet for a few moments, the hum of the radiator our only company, until he leans forward again and folds his arms across his desk. "Well. They'd be very lucky to have you."

Before I can respond, the office door swings wide and a voice floats in. "Here you go, Edward." As I turn, a tiny blond comes into view, her blue eyes trained on Edward's face as she holds out a sheet of paper. A sheet of paper I recognize – one I filled out a year and a half ago when I came for an interview to work at Grove. The cyclical nature of life smacks me between the eyes, and I want to punch it right back.

"Thanks," he says, accepting the paper. "Irina, this is Bella. She's been interning here for the past eighteen months." He glances at the sheet before looking back to me. "Irina's interested in being your replacement, unless you can scare her off with tales of how demanding and difficult to work with I am."

I glance at Irina, and I can already tell that no number of horror stories – of which, I'd never admit to Edward, there really are none – could ever deter her from wanting to work for him. "Not while you're listening," I reply, and he laughs.

"Touché." He sets the paper on the corner of his desk, and I wonder if it's the only one he's fielded or if there are others to consider. I try to pretend like I don't care about the possibility that this tiny, perky, beautiful girl before me could be my replacement, could be the one spending her days with Edward in my place. She's hovering, and the air in the room grows increasingly awkward until the sudden, shrill sound of a Christmas carol breaks the silence.

 _All I Want for Christmas Is You._ The Mariah Carey version.

As she fishes a cell phone out of her pocket and silences the festive ringtone, Edward tosses me a horrified look, which I return with a grin. "So, Irina…you like Christmas, huh?"

Her blue eyes widen in surprise. "Of course! Who doesn't like Christmas?"

I give Edward a pointed look, amused to no end by the slight wrinkle in his nose. "That's a good question. What kind of crankpot doesn't like _Christmas_? Edward?"

He rolls his eyes. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

It's the same question he's asked me a million times when I'm giving him grief, but this time it feels different. Whether from the presence of my possible replacement or the knowledge that these moments are nearly at an end, I don't know, but the dismissal stings in a way it never has.

"As a matter of fact, I do." I loop my scarf back around my neck and grab my bag from the floor. "It was nice to meet you, Irina," I say, and she smiles an open, guileless smile.

"You too, Bella!"

And as I step out of Edward's office and out of Grove House, I tell myself to keep looking forward.

* * *

"So, I feel like I should be straight with you," Rosalie Hale says as we finish up my job interview. She's wearing a gorgeous, cream-colored cowl-necked sweater and studded earrings that look like icicles, and her eyes are the cool, piercing blue of an Arctic sky. Still, the warmth that emanates from her is undeniable.

"Okay," I say, preemptive disappointment tainting what I thought had been a good interview, so far.

Noting my hesitation, she continues. "You're hired, if you want it. This interview was really a formality; we've been working with you long enough to know how competent you are and how dedicated, and we have no doubt that you'd be an asset to the department."

I can't hide my surprise. "Really?"

"Really. And honestly, even if we hadn't been working together as much as we have, I'd pretty much have hired you based on Edward's letter alone."

"Edward's letter?"

Rosalie tilts her head to one side. "His letter of recommendation. And then his reference. I called over and he reiterated everything he said in his letter pretty vehemently. He made it clear that if we didn't hire you, we were morons."

My mind races, trying to imagine what Edward would have written. Despite the fact that I know he appreciates what I do, the words we trade out loud are usually injected with a healthy dose of teasing or sarcasm.

"'A warm heart, a sharp mind, and an immovable moral compass,' was how he put it," she continues, and a warm flush of pleasure works its way up my neck. "He said that if he could afford to hire you full-time, you wouldn't even be available." She leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on the conference room table in front of her and steamrolling ahead, not giving me much chance to bask in the pleasure of her revelation. "Still, I want to give it to you straight. This job…it's not easy." I nod, opening my mouth to acknowledge that I know this, but she keeps talking. "The hours suck, the pay sucks, and the success rate is never as high as we wish it would be. We're constantly working with shitty situations and are usually only able to make them marginally less shitty. Days where we actually manage to get a _good_ result are few and far between."

"Why do you do it?" I ask, not out of challenge but out of genuine curiosity.

She's quiet for a moment before she shrugs. "Because when we do get one, it matters."

I nod. "I get that."

After a moment, she mimics my nod. "Are you entertaining any other offers?"

"I have a phone interview with Rochester House on Monday."

Her shapely eyebrows lift. "Rochester House in Massachusetts?"

"Yes."

"Wow." She leans back and folds her manicured hands across her torso. "Well, Bella, as a potential employer, I should tell you that we'd be lucky to have you, and we will do what we can to lure you here. But as someone who has come to regard you as a friend in the past year, I'll tell you that that's an offer you should seriously consider, if they make it."

I nod again. "Yeah. It…has a good reputation."

"It does," she agrees, nodding for a moment before gathering the papers in front of her back into their manila folder. "Well, we'd like an answer as soon as you have it, but we can certainly wait until after you talk with them."

"Thank you."

"Thanks for coming in," she says, extending a hand, and I shake it. We both smile slightly, acknowledging without words the slight strangeness of the formality. After a moment, she laughs, breaking the handshake. "Okay. That's done."

"Done," I agree, and she tucks the folder beneath her elbow.

"I really hope you'll come work here. I could use a friend at work who will hit Happy Hour with me and not fall over after two white wine spritzers."

I laugh again. "Well, my tolerance kind of sucks, but I don't drink white wine spritzers; I'm more of a gin and tonic girl."

"Perfect," she says, and I follow her from the room. Weaving around desks and filing cabinets, she leads me back to her office, which is really just a corner of the larger floor plan separated by a cubicle partition. Such is the glamour of a career in social services. She slides the folder into a small wire inbox at the corner of her desk and plucks her coat and purse from the coat rack in the corner. "Are you headed back to Grove House? Or home?"

I shrug; as the days tick by, I'm finding myself increasingly at loose ends. Between my pending redundancy at the House and the cessation of requirements to complete my degree, I find myself with an overabundance of free time. While once upon a time I would have welcomed it, these days it does little more than make me anxious. "My afternoon is sort of open," I admit.

"I have to pick something up from the jeweler's on Southern Ave. Want to tag along and hit happy hour afterward?"

I think about heading home – home, empty because Alice and Jasper are celebrating an anniversary I didn't care to ask too many questions about, considering they started dating in November, not December – only to sit alone in front of the television and obsess over my supervisor and his adorably perky potential new intern and my Secret Santa ex-boyfriend. "I'd love to."

As I follow Rosalie Hale's Honda Civic – white, but really that special shade of dirt-brown typical of cars in the northeast during winter months, thanks to the copious amounts of salt kicked up from wet, slushy roads – through the city streets, I let the festiveness chip away at my melancholy: lights along store awnings, garlands on lampposts, trees in window displays. That's the tricky thing about Christmas: it's both impossible to be sad, and yet impossible not to long for things.

Parallel parking behind her car, I shadow her into the jeweler's on the corner, giving her some privacy as I wander aimlessly around the perimeter of the small store, eyeing the smudge-free glass cases and their glittering displays. Rings. A million rings in a million different styles, none of them lacking in the sparkle department. Bracelets, necklaces, brooches, charms. I think about the lone piece of jewelry I own that I didn't buy for myself – the small sapphire birthstone necklace pendant that my father bought me for my thirteenth birthday – sitting in its box in the top drawer of my nightstand.

Then, I stop in front of the last case at the back of the store: men's watches. There are too many to be believed, but not a digital one in the bunch. They're all elegant, with gleaming glass faces and case bodies in all sorts of materials: gold, silver, some type of black metal. Straps in coordinating metals and black or brown leather. I try to picture each of them on Edward's wrist with no success until I reach the last one in the case, hidden in the back corner. It's timeless: a black leather strap, silver case body, a nearly blank black face, save the silver hands and silver roman numerals around its edges. It's timeless and elegant and understated and handsome and practical and unassuming: it's Edward, in watch form.

"Find something?" Rosalie's leaning over my shoulder, peering into the case.

"Just…" I wave at the case. "Gift shopping."

"Who for?"

"Oh. I…" I scramble, because in what universe is admitting I'm considering something like this for Edward not a pretty obvious foray into my poorly-kept secret? But she's watching me intently, and thanks in large part to my cop father, I've always been a pretty crappy liar.

"Sorry," she's saying. "That was nosy. I'm…well, I'm nosy. I feel this is something you should probably know up front." But she smiles, and I can't bring myself to lie.

"I'm brainstorming for Edward."

As expected, her eyebrows jump. "Edward?" And, trained as she is in human emotion and psychology, those perfectly-shaped eyebrows lower as she clues in. "Oh."

"I just…he's been really great. As a supervisor. And a friend, really. And I wanted to get him something…useful." I'm babbling, and pretty unconvincingly, but Rosalie lets me get away with it as she leans forward over the glass case, the ends of her blond hair brushing its top. "Which one?"

"Back corner," I say, grateful that her focus has shifted from my face which, from the feel of it, is probably a pretty close color match for Santa's suit. "With the black strap."

"Oh. Yeah, definitely. That's a nice watch."

"Yeah."

She straightens. "I can see Edward wearing that."

"Yeah?" I'm absurdly, stupidly grateful for the input of someone who knows him – nearly as grateful as I am that she's not harping on the fact that I'm considering buying my boss a pretty un-bossly Christmas gift.

She nods, half-turning to catch the attention of the sales associate who has been lurking hopefully to one side. "I think my friend would like to see one of the men's watches."

When the woman pulls it out and places it on a square of black velvet on top of the glass case between us, I know before I pick it up – before I even look at the price tag – that I'm going to buy it. For a brief moment, in spite of the fact that Rosalie and the saleslady are watching me intently, I allow myself to imagine seeing him slide it onto his wrist and fasten the strap; imagine seeing him take it off at the end of the day and set it on his dresser. "It's a beautiful piece," the woman is saying, and it takes everything in me not to snort and make a comment that so is its intended recipient. After she details its features and hands it to me, letting me feel the heft of it in my palm, the softness yet sturdiness of its leather strap, I nod wordlessly, handing it back to her.

"It's perfect."

She beams and replaces the watch in the case before bending to retrieve a boxed one from a door in the back of it. "I can ring you up, unless there's anything else I can help you with today?"

I bite my lip against the reply that I'm in the wrong tax bracket to even be buying a watch from this place, let alone something else to go along with it, and simply shake my head, moving to the register to pay for Edward's gift. And, as I do, I bask in the thrill that works its way through me at the simple act of buying him a Christmas present. The intimacy of it, the powerful suggestiveness, the inherent simplicity in what has, at least on my side, become so undeniably complicated. As we step back out onto the city sidewalk, rock salt crunching beneath the soles of our shoes, I half-turn to face Rosalie. "Did you get what you needed?"

She holds the tiny burgundy gift bag aloft, its gold tissue paper peeking out from its top. It says something for the quality of the establishment, when they gift-wrap your purchases as a matter of practice, and not in a nod to the season. The last piece of jewelry I bought came in a plastic carrier bag and was accompanied by a tube of lip gloss and a box of tampons. Hooray, Target. "I did." She grins. "Engagement ring."

"What?"

"You know Lauren Mallory?"

"Of course. She tutors at Grove House."

"Oh. Right. Well, her boyfriend, Eric, has been my best friend since high school. He's planning on proposing on Christmas Eve, but he's been out of town on business for two weeks. When the jeweler called to tell him that the ring was ready, he asked me to pick it up, as I'm going to be his Best Woman." Here, she smirks. "Well, with the obvious exception of the bride, of course."

I think of Lauren – kind, smart as a whip, and possessing of that unique ability to be both soft-spoken and take no shit from the teenage boys in whose very nature it is to try to give it. "That's great," I say. "She's great."

Rosalie nods. "She is." Clicking the key fob to unlock her car, she dips her head toward the small bag in my own hand. "And don't think I'm not going to have more questions about that when we get to the bar. I just figure they'll go over better with drinks in hand."

And, true to her warning, the minute I'm nursing a gin and tonic and she has a Bacardi and Coke on the cocktail napkin in front of her, she angles her body to face me. "So?"

"So?" But I give her a small smile, because I already know I'm not fooling her about any of it.

"Remember how I said that I was nosy?"

"I do."

"You should know that the nosy also comes with a side of really bad filter."

Loosened by the mere proximity of liquor or still faintly giddy at the thought of Edward's Christmas gift stashed inside my purse, I laugh. "Okay."

She grins for a minute, then sobers slightly. "Edward, huh?"

I shrug. "We've just…become good friends over the past year and a half."

"Friends," she echoes, and I surrender the last tiny thread of the charade, tracing a tiny star pattern in the condensation on the side of my glass.

"I know. It's pathetic. How many women in the world have purchased overly sentimental Christmas gifts for their unrequited loves in hopes that, come Christmas, the guys will finally clue in and declare their own undying love?"

She takes a measured sip of her drink. "A lot, probably."

"Exactly."

"Doesn't mean it never works."

To this, I say nothing. Because she might be right, and the tiny, snowflake-sized chance that she might be right in _this_ case – it's just that: a shimmering, silvery snowflake of possibility that I fear a single touch will reduce to nothing but a memory.

"Well, a watch is a pretty great gift, regardless. Guys are impossible to buy for; I'd imagine Edward is probably worse than most."

I laugh. "Well, I have some experience in that area. My dad was pretty impossible, too."

"Oh yeah?"

I launch into talking about Charlie: how he always said he didn't want anything except a few new fishing lures and some hooks, and how every year I found myself wandering aimlessly around the mall in Port Angeles, trying to find something I thought he'd actually use. Over the years, my attempts were met with increasing levels of success: while the Seattle Mariners batting-helmet-shaped telephone didn't do much more than gather dust on the top ledge of his bedroom closet, the new coffee pot was met with unparalleled enthusiasm and was the most-used appliance in our kitchen for years thereafter. The unused voucher for the weeklong fishing trip I bought him for the Christmas two months before he died is still sitting on top of a cardboard box in my own closet. I can't bring myself to throw it away, even if its true value has long passed its expiration date. When I trail off, Rosalie's beautiful face is gently sympathetic.

"How long ago did he pass away?"

I frown; I don't remember telling her that he had. But then I think back over my rambling, and of course, I was talking about him in the past tense. "When I was sixteen."

She nods. "I'm sorry." A pause, and then, "My dad died when I was nine."

A pang in my chest, as if her loss were my own. "I'm sorry."

She gives me that half-smile of commiserators the world over. "Yeah. He was pretty cool. Sounds like your dad was, too."

"He was."

"My mom was a pretty selfish bitch. Remarried within a year to a douchebag with a considerable financial portfolio and essentially left me to my own devices." The parallels to my own story are surprising, and I take a sip of my own drink.

"Yeah. My mom and I…we're not close, either."

After a moment of quiet, Rosalie leans forward. "Don't go to Boston, Bella. Stay here and come work with me."

The right words, coming from the wrong mouth. Still, I smile. "They haven't offered me the job, yet."

"They will," she says. "They'd be idiots not to. Especially if Edward sent them the same letter he sent me."

I shake my head. "I don't think they contacted Edward. He was surprised when I mentioned the possibility."

"Oh. Well. They might now. And if he sends them that same letter, you're going to have another offer coming your way." Leaning forward farther, she drops her voice, as if anyone around us is paying any notice. "I don't know Edward that well, beyond the polite realm of professionalism. But I do know recommendation letters. And what he wrote…it was more than that. I don't know nearly enough about him to speak for his feelings. But Bella, he feels strongly about you somehow, whether it's romantic or not. And I hope that you know that, even if it doesn't turn out the way you hope it will."

I nod, because I do. All signs point to yes: Edward cares about me. Edward values me as a person. Edward wants good things for me. "Thanks, Rosalie."

"Rose," she corrects, leaning back in her stool. "My friends call me Rose."

"Rose, then."

She nods, then raises her glass. "Well. Here's to…" She trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank. And there are so many choices: Here's to possibility. Here's to wishes. Here's to miracles. Here's to love, romance, new adventures, new friends, old friends. Here's to the blessings we already have and the gratitude for them. But then I think about who we are, about what we do, and I know there's really only one way to end that toast. "Here's to hope."

She beams, as if I've given the right answer to a final test. "Here's to hope."

We clink, drink, and the world goes on around us.

* * *

"You've got mail," Alice says from where she's standing at the stove, pointing toward the corner of the counter, where I can see a long, narrow box wrapped in now-familiar holiday paper with my name once again carefully calligraphied on small cream-colored piece of cardstock.

"Santa Claus again," she adds, watching me pick up the box. "You also have a phone message. Emmett. He said he tried your cell phone but it kept going straight to voicemail, so he called the house instead. He asked me to have you call him when you have a minute."

"Okay," I say, turning the slender box over in my hands. Peeling off the paper, I find a long, thin cardboard box; when I open the lid and peel back a layer of gold tissue paper, I find a pair of red and white striped gloves nestled inside. "Oooh," Alice says from over my shoulder.

When I pull one on, I remember for a brief, fleeting moment the feel of Edward's fleece-lined gloves that still held his warmth. "Wow," I say, flexing my fingers. "They fit perfectly." I can already tell how toasty they'll be, even inside the heated cocoon of our house.

"They look like alpaca wool," Alice says, tracing the glove still in the box with a fingertip once before returning to her post at the stove. "I bet they'll be warm."

"Yeah," I agree, slipping my hand free and stroking the wool. They're beautiful and festive and exactly the type of gloves I'd never splurge on for myself.

It isn't until I reach for the paper discarded on the countertop that I notice the other piece of mail waiting for me: my mother's Christmas card, with a yellow Return to Sender sticker across the bottom of the envelope. Frowning, I pick it up and glance at the address I'd inked on it weeks ago. No mistakes.

"What's wrong?" Alice asks, stirring the pot on the stove and watching me intently.

"It's my mom's card. It's come back."

She puts the spoon in the spoon rest and replaces the lid on the pot. "Maybe she just moved and hasn't had a chance to call you yet?"

But the pity in Alice's eyes belies her optimism. We both know the truth. I stick the card in my back pocket, not even caring that it's going to get bent. I try not to remember the way I'd stood in front of the card rack for twenty minutes, reading every single "Mom" card and trying to strike the perfect balance: honest enough that she would know how much I cared about her, despite everything, and not so sappy that I had to picture her rolling her eyes when she read it.

That I shouldn't have bothered makes my eyes sting with humiliation.

I don't know where my mother lives. Granted, we've never been close, but I at least had her address and her phone number, just in case. In case of what, I don't know: illness? Injury? I try to remember the last time I called her, and realize it was a year and a half ago, when I got settled in Chicago and wanted to give her my new contact information. I try to remember the last time _she_ called _me_ , and am unsurprised but saddened all the same to realize I can't.

I don't know why I suddenly feel more alone now than I did twenty minutes ago. My mother and I haven't had much of a relationship; the possibility that we won't have one at all won't really be much of a change. Still, I could at least tell myself that I had a mother, that I could call her if I needed to, that if I needed to get to her, I could. Now, she's nearly as lost to me as my father is, but this time, it's by choice.

"Fuck her, Bella," Alice says, voice soft but fierce. "I know it sucks. It _sucks_ not to have a mom. But if she can't see how awesome you are, then _fuck_ her." When I turn, she's standing before me, brimming with fury and fire. My ferocious friend.

"Thank you," I say, blinking against the renewed sting in my eyes, this time from gratitude.

She looks into my eyes for a few beats before nodding and hitching her thumb toward the stove. "I made spaghetti sauce."

"Sounds perfect."

"Why don't you take a hot shower and ditch the work clothes? It'll be ready by the time you're back down here."

I force myself to give her a grin. "That sounds awfully suggestive, Alice. You sure Jasper's 100% your type?"

"Would anyone put up with any man's bullshit if dating women were more their style?"

At that, I laugh. "Good point." Following her suggestion, I make my way upstairs and into the small bathroom at the end of the hall. By the time I'm standing beneath the borderline too-hot spray, enveloped in a swirl of steam, the roller coaster of the day has caught up with me, and I'm exhausted. From the elation of this morning – bantering with Edward and enjoying the knowledge that he'd strung lights on our tree – to the crash upon being faced – literally – with a candidate for my replacement, to the joy of being offered the social services job, to the crash of my mother's returned card…I'm just done. I feel wrung out.

I can't stop thinking about my mother – Renee – and that Return to Sender sticker. It's as if, along with the card, she's returned what modicum of affection I still held for her. A thanks-but-no-thanks not only to my holiday greeting, but to my love. To _me_. What are we, now? Estranged, Strangers? Is there a difference? Is it possible to get to B without first hitting A? _"We're not close, either,"_ I'd said to Rosalie. It wasn't the first time I'd said it aloud, but now, in the face of today's events, it's the first time it's felt like an understatement. Somehow, despite the scientific impossibility of it, my mother feels farther away from me than Charlie does.

I refuse to let myself cry. Like Alice said, fuck her. If my mother doesn't want to have a relationship with me, then I'll keep telling myself that it's her loss. And yet, with the uncertainty of my future looming before me, the pending loss of so many things I've come to love – Grove House, my program, Edward – I'm powerless against the sweep of loneliness that makes me want to stay cocooned in the swirling heat of my shower until Santa delivers a crystal snow globe that can provide me with a glimpse into my future.

Instead, I force myself to think of what I do have. My health. My home. My education. My job prospects. My friends: Alice and Jasper. Rosalie Hale. And, yes, even Emmett. We may be in a weird state of limbo at the moment, and I may be staring down the barrel of having to let him down gently, again, but I have faith that when the awkwardness of the post-breakup phase is over, we'll wind up being friends. The guys at Grove House, who are all in varying shades of gruff, but who have all let me be part of this tumultuous yet hopeful time in their lives. Who all remind me every day of all that I have, and – more importantly – what I have to give. And, suddenly, I remember Rosalie's and my toast, and I vow to make it my mantra for the foreseeable future.

Here's to hope.

* * *

 _I'm going to be lonely without you,  
going to be a lonely, lonely Christmas without you.  
My future's looking bleak, oh so down I could weep._

 _It's the saddest time of the year, oh yes it is…  
There's no presents under the tree  
There's nobody waiting for me  
Oh but you never know, never know what's coming round._

 _(Mick Jagger and Joss Stone, "Lonely Without You (This Christmas)")_

* * *

 **We woke up to the first snowflakes of the season this morning, and my daughter was alight with joy. I wish you the same kind of day. xo**

 **(Also, I know, this chapter was a little light on the Edward. More of our resident Scrooge next chapter as we start to round the corner!)**


	7. December 16: 9 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

. . .

 **Somewhat rambly A/N:** (Feel free to skip ahead to the story; my feelings won't be hurt.) I lost my father in an accident when I was a teenager. My mother wasn't feeling up to putting up a Christmas tree that year; neither my sister nor I could bring ourselves to argue with her. One day just before the holiday, the three of us went out for some forgotten errand. When we got home, my mother's best friend had let herself into our house, put up the tree, decorated it for us, then went home. I'll never forget that. I'll never forget what it felt like to feel heartbroken at Christmas, just as I'll never forget what it felt like to realize how loved we were, even when we were hurting too deeply to see it.

 **To those of you who have shared painful memories of Christmases past and present with me: I wish you joy and comfort this holiday season and in the coming year. xo**

 **. . .**

 **December 16**

 **(Nine days until Christmas)**

"Holy shit, it's cold out here," Alice pants, her nose and cheeks a blazing red, hair sticking out in haphazard wisps from beneath her woolly hat. "We've been running for twenty minutes and I'm still freezing. Can we just call it a day?"

"Ugh," I pant by way of agreement, dragging my now-backup mitten beneath my nose, which may or may not be running – it went numb about ten minutes ago. "Yes. We're stupid."

"I ate seven of those cookies," Alice says, hands propped on her hips as she walks in a circle, her black and neon pink sneakers bright against the bleak winter backdrop. In fact, Alice herself is a pretty vivid picture, with her black-and-neon-orange running pants, her vibrant purple hooded sweatshirt, and her hot pink hat. It sort of looks like a Nike catalog threw up on her. "We had to do _something._ Running is free."

I groan, propping myself up against a tree to stretch my hamstring. "Until we slip on an ice patch and wind up in the ER."

"Until that happens," she agrees, drawing to a halt and leaning against the tree beside me. "We should find a yoga class for poor people."

"Otherwise known as buying a yoga DVD from the bargain bin at Wal-Mart and doing it in the living room?"

"Sounds about right." She tips her head back, resting it against the bark of the tree and staring up at the gray sky. "My lungs are burning. And my legs. And my face, actually. Why do people do this again?"

"I have no idea."

"Know how it's pretty obvious we're bad at this?"

"How?"

"We forgot to turn around."

"What?"

"We should have turned around about ten minutes ago. That way, we were back at home by the time we felt like we were going to die. Now we have to walk all the way home. And I'd imagine it's only going to be colder when we're _not_ running."

"Oh." I frown. "Yup, that was pretty stupid."

"We should buy coffee for the walk back. And a muffin or something, since we must have burned at least 500 calories, if only through shivering."

I laugh. "At least."

Once we've procured beverages, plus a muffin for Alice and a chocolate croissant for me, and we're walking home, Alice half-turns to face me. "So, change of plans: I'm not going home for Christmas."

"What? Why not?"

She shrugs, blowing into the lid of her cup. "It's too expensive. And my dad bought my mom a cruise for Christmas, which leaves on Boxing Day. Plus, Jasper has to work Christmas week, and…I don't really want to leave him. And you're here."

Suspicion creeps in as I listen to her ramble. "Alice."

"Bella."

"Tell me this isn't because of my mother."

"This isn't because of your mother," she parrots, an obedient schoolgirl.

"Alice."

"It really isn't. Do I feel badly for you? Yes. But I feel _more_ badly for your idiot mother, because you're awesome and she's missing out on that. But really, I want to be with the people I love at Christmas. And I love my parents, of course I do, but I love you and Jasper, and I just…want to be home. Plus, their condo isn't home. And they're leaving at the crack of dawn on December 26 anyway."

I debate arguing the point, but who am I to tell Alice where she should be spending Christmas? Who am I to argue with her about home? "Okay," I say.

"I thought we could plan dinner," she says, and suddenly she's alight with Alice-energy, eyes bright and the bobble on her hat bobbing. "We can invite Emmett and Jasper and – well, anybody else who doesn't have plans." The way focuses on peeling the wrapper from her muffin makes me think she was going to say something else – something like "Edward," maybe – but she barrels on. "I'll make…well, the only thing I really _can_ make that's appropriate for Christmas dinner is green bean casserole. But I'll help you with whatever else. And we'll order pies from The Cakery and drink lots of booze and stuff ourselves stupid and watch some Christmas movies and open presents and just do Christmas up right." And as she rambles, it takes shape in my mind: this new Christmas, a new tradition. "What do you think?" she asks, watching my face, and I feel the smile spreading before I'm aware of it.

"I think it sounds awesome. We can make a ham."

"Oh, God, I love ham."

I laugh, a relieved kind of joy bubbling up in me. "Me too."

Alice beams, blue-gray eyes bright above her pink cheeks. "I have to say something real fast, and then I'll keep my nosiness to a minimum."

"Okay."

"You're my best friend. I've never really had a best girlfriend, but you're it. And I want you to be happy. I want the absolute best things for you, whatever they are, and I will support you no matter what you pursue, if you want it." She pauses, expectant, so I nod. "So I'm only going to voice my opinion once, and then I'll back whatever you choose."

"Okay…"

"Boston would be lucky to have you. But I'll miss you like crazy if you go. And for purely selfish reasons, I really hope you stay."

The sting in my eyes could easily be explained away by the cold, but the warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with my coffee. "Thank you, Alice. I'll miss you like crazy if I go, too."

She nods, and is opening her mouth to continue when I feel a small bump against the bag holding my croissant. When I look down, there's a dirty, too-thin dog pressing its wet nose against the bag. I jump in surprise, but quickly settle as I watch the dog take a wary step back, ducking his head and flattening his ears. "Hey, it's okay." I slowly lower myself to a knee and hold out a gloved hand. The dog eyes it warily, but makes no move to come any closer. "It's okay," I murmur again, and his tail gives a short, low wag, but his ears stay flattened. "Alice, give me your muffin."

"Excuse me?"

"Your muffin," I say without looking at her. "Let me give him some of it."

"Pretty sure he was sniffing around your croissant," she grumbles halfheartedly, pressing her unwrapped but uneaten muffin into my mittened palm.

"Dogs can't eat chocolate," I say, breaking off a third of the muffin and holding it out, close to the ground. The dog eyes it, tail wagging a little more, but he still doesn't move closer. I set the chunk of muffin on the concrete, and sit back. He takes a hesitant step, moving from side to side in equivocation before finally creeping forward slightly and stretching his neck as far as he can to snag the bite from the ground. "Good boy," I hum, breaking off another third of the muffin and setting it back on the ground between us. This time, his hesitation lasts only half as long before he gently picks it up and scarfs it down. The last piece I hold out in my open palm, and he watches me carefully for a moment before stepping forward and plucking it from my hand. Once it's disappeared, he sniffs around my hand, nudging it with his nose to be sure I'm not hiding anything more. I laugh. "Sorry, buddy. That's all of it."

"Do you think he's lost?" Alice asks, but her voice is doubtful. He's too thin, too dirty, too ragged-looking to belong to anyone. Or, at least, anyone who cares about him.

"If he is, he's been lost for a while," I reply, straightening slowly and feeling my legs ache as I do so. He watches me rise from wary brown eyes, head ducking slightly but tail still wagging in tight, contained sweeps.

"Should we call somebody?"

"I don't know," I say. "Maybe…" As we watch, the dog takes a step closer and sniffs my bag again. "Sorry, buddy. You can't have that." But the hope in those big brown eyes is torture. "Maybe we can take him home and give him something to eat and find a safe place to take him. I don't want to call animal control; he might wind up in a kill shelter or something."

"Okay, yeah. That's a good idea." Stepping closer, Alice wrinkles her nose. "He reeks, though."

"Really?"

"You don't smell him? He smells like wet dog that's been rolling around in garbage."

"Well, Alice, he probably _is_ a wet dog that's been rolling around in garbage."

"Then maybe the first thing we should give him is a _bath._ "

"Good idea."

Alice eyes the dog warily. "How do we get him home?"

It's a good question. Neither of us has anything that would double as a leash, and he doesn't have a collar to fasten one to, anyway. "Maybe if I wait here, you can go home and get your car." At her face, I amend, "My car." Reaching into the zippered pocket of my workout pants, I fish out our house key. "Here," I say, stepping toward her. As I do, the dog echoes my step forward. "Huh." I take another step; again, he's at my heels. "Maybe…" I take a few more steps; he shadows every one. "Well, okay then. Guess we're walking."

Sure enough, the dog follows Alice and me the entire way home. By the time we turn onto our street, he's walking very nearly between us.

As we approach our front door, Alice spots it before I do and elbows me. When I look up, there's a long red envelope taped to the door with a gold bow stuck to its corner. "Damn! We missed him!"

The dog flinches at Alice's sudden shout, and I place a reassuring hand on the warm crown of his head. "Easy, Alice."

"Sorry." She yanks the envelope from the door. "But seriously. I want to catch him in the act." She pauses. "But then again, I sort of don't. This is the most exciting thing going on in my life, at the moment, so…" She shrugs, holding the envelope out to me.

"Well, my hands are too frozen to open it out here, so let's get inside."

Once in, I peel my mittens off and reach for the envelope, peeling it open and sticking the bow to Alice's forehead. She giggles, plucking it off and sticking it to her coffee cup. When I open the envelope, there's no note, but rather a pair of tickets. It only takes a glance for the name to stand out. " _The Nutcracker,_ " I read.

"I get it!" Alice yells suddenly, snatching the tickets and holding them aloft. "Dancing!"

I nod, pulling off my hat. "Yeah, Alice. It's _The Nutcracker_. There's dancing."

" _Ladies_ dancing," she emphasizes, and I frown.

"Well, really, it's mostly children and animals and…candy and stuff. Although I guess the Sugar Plum Fairy is a lady."

"No!" Alice says, grabbing and squeezing my forearm in her excitement. " _Nine ladies dancing._ "

"What…" I begin, even as I start to catch on, remembering that first note – the only other note, until now – and its reference to the twelve days of the season. I'd sort of forgotten it with the subsequent gifts.

"The first one was twelve chocolates. _Twelve_. Then a _drum_ of popcorn. Then…" She stops, frowning, ticking numbers off on her fingers.

"Gloves," I supply. "And I'm more of a mitten girl. So gloves really—"

"Gloves!" she nearly shrieks, and the dog barks. "Gloves, with _ten_ fingers. And now _this_ —" Here, she holds the tickets aloft again – "Ladies dancing! He's doing the _Twelve Days of Christmas_." Almost immediately, I think back to Edward's criticism of the song while we were decorating the House. "That's…really sweet, actually," Alice says, looking down at the tickets. "I didn't realize Emmett had it in him."

I did, but I don't tell Alice this. Emmett is romantic, but he doesn't broadcast it. His sweetness is undeniable – anyone who knows him can see how much he cares about the people around him – but he always tried to do little things like this. To show his love in tangible ways. Almost immediately, I feel guilty that I'm not more smitten. More grateful. More…something. I feel terrible at the undeniable knowledge that, if this gesture were coming from someone else, it would be the most romantic, most amazing thing anyone had ever done for me. As it is, it just makes me feel badly that I'm not more swept away. Emmett knows how much I love Christmas; that he's gone to all this effort makes my heart hurt. I remember playing the _Nutcracker_ theme on loop in my car last year, when Emmett and I first started hanging out, and how he'd laughed and admitted he didn't really "get it," the whole _Nutcracker_ thing. But he remembered, all the same.

"Nothing, huh?" Alice says, her eyes softly sympathetic, as if she's been able to follow every thought that has meandered through my mind. I shrug, and Alice sighs. "And no forward movement on the Edward front?"

"Nope." As if he, too, has picked up on my sudden bout of wistfulness, the dog nudges my hand. I stroke his head, scratching lightly behind his ears.

Sighing again, she glances down. "Well, you could always try the same trick that worked on the dog." When she sees my frown, her face breaks into a devilish smile. "Give him a bite of your muffin."

"Alice!" I holler, but as I chuck the balled-up wrapping paper at her, I'm grinning.

"Seriously," she says, laughing along with me. "What have you got to lose?"

"Oh, nothing, just my pride," I volley, but I'm still smiling. With Alice teasing me, it doesn't seem quite so dire.

"Pfft," she scoffs. "Pride's pretty poor company on cold winter nights."

"Yeah, well, so are foul-smelling canines. Let's get this guy in the tub."

* * *

After getting the dog – who, it turns out, is a _she_ and not a _he_ – scrubbed and calling a vet chosen at random from the Yellow Pages, I leave our new furry friend in Alice's dubious but capable care and head over to Grove House with the bags of popcorn I popped last night and a few spools of thread. Soon I'm sitting cross-legged beside Redford, with Edward sitting across from me, doubt written pretty clearly across his face.

"It seems like we're just inviting a rodent problem," he says as I hold the string aloft, and I chuck a piece of popcorn at his face. Quick as lightning, he opens his mouth and his tongue darts out to catch it before disappearing back into his mouth. He smirks as he chews. "Delicious. If slightly stale."

I will myself not to blush at something as stupid as a seconds-long glimpse of his tongue. "Scrooge."

"I'm just saying. We're diligent about putting food away so we don't get mice in here, and then we're going to just dangle snacks from low-hanging branches like a vermin buffet?"

"Just…shut up and string," I tell him, and he glances at me once before obediently picking up a length of green thread and a needle. We're quiet for a few minutes before he clears his throat.

"Everything okay?"

Surprised, I look up. "What?"

He breaks my gaze, stabbing a piece of popcorn. "You usually give me more pushback than that. More…'Hooray, Christmas.' Everything okay?"

I shrug. "Yeah. Just tired."

I feel rather than see the piece of popcorn bounce off my forehead. When I look up, he's smiling, but it's small and is tempered by the crease between his eyes. "What's up?"

I string a few more kernels, and when I realize he's still watching me, I sigh. "My mom's Christmas card came back. The address was right, but it got returned."

"Oh," he says after a moment, and I hate the pity in his voice nearly as much as I hate the fact that it's not entirely unwarranted.

"I just…I can't believe she could move without even _telling_ me."

"Maybe it was a mistake?"

"I tried to call her. Her number's been disconnected."

"Oh." He's quiet for a long time, diligently stringing popcorn, his long fingers working the needle through each individual piece.

"I don't even know why this bothers me. We hardly speak, anyway. It shouldn't even matter."

"But it does."

"Yeah. I guess it does." But I'm frowning at the winding trail of popcorn in my lap, lost in my own confusion. I still don't know _why_ it does.

"Can I ask a question?" he asks after a long moment, pulling the needle free and tying a knot in the short tail of thread at the end of his popcorn chain before setting the completed string down beside him.

"Sure."

"Would it matter as much if it had been her birthday card?"

"What?"

He puts his bowl of popcorn on the floor beside him and brings his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. "Would you be this upset if it wasn't Christmas?"

It takes me a minute to come around to his meaning, but when I do, I realize that for all the distance we keep between us, Edward might know me even better than Alice.

It's Christmas. The time of year for family. For miracles. For wishes and dreams and hope. It's the time of year that bursts with possibility. And my mother has just stomped all over it in her ugly, clumpy Birkenstocks.

"No," I say softly, staring down at the unfinished string of popcorn in my lap, which begins to swim before my eyes. "No, probably not."

"Bella," Edward says softly, and I remember his discomfort when I cried over Charlie all too recently, his barely-obscured desire for my momentary meltdown to pass as quickly as possible. Still, in this moment, he doesn't look awkward or uncomfortable. Just…sad. Sympathetic. Somehow, it's worse.

"Sorry," I say quickly, looking away as I press a fingertip to the corner of my eye.

"Don't be sorry," he says, voice rough, and when I look back up at him, I wish I could let myself believe that the look in his eyes was love.

"I'm fine."

"I know you are."

We stare at each other in silence for a minute before I incline my chin toward him. "So, what's with the beard?" I ask, chucking another piece of popcorn at his face. Again, he catches it, and again, the flash of his tongue makes thoughts of my mother nearly vanish.

As he chews, he shrugs. "Keeps my face warm."

"You look like a lumberjack," I say, with a pointed glance at his plaid flannel button-down.

"Burly and masculine and strong?"

"Unkempt and scruffy," I edit, letting the truth echo silently in my mind. _Capable. Manly. Comfortable. Huggable._

"Hmph."

"You missed Halloween by about two months, if you were trying for Paul Bunyan."

"Halloween," he says, voice faintly wistful. "Now _there's_ a holiday. Candy and zombies and movies with chainsaws."

I roll my eyes. "Again, with the chainsaws. Are you _sure_ you don't have aspirations toward forestry?"

He gestures toward Redford, looming over us. "I did manage to haul a pretty considerably-sized tree in here."

"Yeah, _after_ some other _real_ lumberjack chopped it down for you. Stud."

He chuckles. "Fine." We lapse into silence for a bit, stringing popcorn in companionable silence until he breaks it. "So how did your interview go?"

"Great," I say, finishing my string and starting on another. "They offered me the job."

"Hey, congratulations! Bella, that's great!" he says, eyes as bright and warm as the twinkle lights draped around the tree's branches.

"Thanks," I say, focusing carefully on the string in my hands. "It…Rosalie said they'd love to have me, but she wanted me to be sure I knew what I was getting myself into. She said it's a hard job."

"Yeah. They have a lot of turnover."

"Yeah."

"What about Boston?"

"I don't know. It's…exactly what I want. A great place, great reputation."

"But?"

"But…it's in Boston."

"Not a Red Sox fan?"

I shrug. "I just…I wasn't sure I'd like Chicago, when I first moved here. But I do. And…I don't know. If I could get that job here in Chicago, I'd take it in a heartbeat. I just…I don't know if I want to move again." It's the closest I'll ever come to saying it out loud: that, more than anything, I want to work at Grove House. I want to stay. I want him to ask me to.

"Yeah. There aren't a lot of jobs like that out there."

"No. There aren't."

We fall into silence for a minute before he speaks again. "You'll have a tough decision on your hands," he says finally, and there it goes. My last shred of hope that he might ask me to stay. If not at Grove House, then at least in Chicago. Close by.

"Yeah. I guess I will."

"Well, if I can do anything to help…"

"Yeah. Thanks."

He finishes another string and ties it off, then unwinds another length of thread from the spool. "So. Your departmental dinner."

I look up at him, surprised. "My dinner?"

He pauses in attempting to thread the needle, looking at me intently, a faint trace of uncertainty clouding his eyes. "You…invited me. Last month."

"I remember. I just…wasn't sure you were coming." I remember the burst of nerves I'd had when I asked him. The departmental dinner is something my program does for every class of graduates: a small get-together to recognize the accomplishments of the soon-to-be-grads and to hand out a few departmental awards, let students drink for free, and invite practicum and internship supervisors for a free meal as a thank-you for putting up with us for however long. I asked Edward last month, when I first learned about it, and he'd said he'd see if he could take the night off. When he didn't mention it again, I assumed he'd forgotten. Or was avoiding turning me down by pretending to forget. Now, in the face of the truth, I feel faintly guilty for thinking so little of him.

"I'd still like to, if that's okay. Shelly can stay late, and Sam can come early." I do my very best not to let the sudden thrill of excitement show on my face. He may not want me to stay on. He may not return my feelings. But the idea of spending an evening with him, dressed up and dining, fills me with delight. "Is it…still okay?"

"It's more than okay," I say, my voice faintly whispery, and he smiles, face softly aglow in the light of the tree beside him.

The silence is just threatening to turn awkward when the boys appear in the doorway. "Can we help?"

"Absolutely," Edward says, gesturing toward the massive bucket of popcorn. "Grab a string." And for the first time, I realize something I've never thought to consider about Edward: for all he harrumphs and humbugs about Christmas to me, he never lets that seep into his tone when the guys are around. He doesn't turn into one of Santa's elves, but he tries to inject as much enthusiasm as he can into these little moments, to pretend that this holiday doesn't hold two of what must be the most painful memories of his life.

For what must be the millionth time this week, I try desperately to hold the last bit of my heart back from tipping over the edge and falling for him like the rest of it already has, but as I peek at him helping Jake thread a needle, I know it's hopeless.

Despite the fact that the boys eat just as much popcorn as they thread, there are enough strings within an hour to cover the branches of the tree looming above us. The room has grown dark and the lights nestled in the branches give off the only light in the room. As I watch Edward and the boys draping the popcorn around the branches, a familiar hum of satisfaction buzzes through me, accompanied by memories of doing just this with Charlie. And, for once, the memory doesn't hurt. It's just there, comforting and constant.

When he realizes I'm not helping, Edward glances over at me, but the direction of my thoughts must show on my face, because he simply gives me a soft smile and returns his focus to draping popcorn strands. When they're done, the boys step back and study the tree.

"What about the balls?" Jake asks, and James punches him in the shoulder.

"Dude," he snickers, and Jake shoves him back, blushing slightly.

"The _Christmas_ balls, jackass."

"Still," James says, snickering, and Edward holds up his hands.

"Okay, guys, easy," he says, but I can see the smile he's fighting in the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "There's a girl in the room."

Two pairs of eyes swing to me, and both boys shove their hands in their pockets. "Sorry, Bella," they say in near-unison, and I shrug.

"Don't worry about it." As I say it, though, I wonder for the first time what it must be like, this house with all these boys in it, when Shelly and I aren't here. The mere thought is sort of horrifying. Forcing my wandering mind back to the present moment, I shrug. "Edward wouldn't let me buy ba— uh – ornaments last year. But if I get some, you guys want to put them on?"

"Definitely," Seth pipes up, and I toss Edward a superior smirk.

"Done."

Edward rolls his eyes, since I'm the only one looking, but he's smiling, too. "Okay, I know when I'm outnumbered. Just…no toy wooden soldier ornaments, okay? Those things are creepy, and I don't want them staring at me in the dark."

And oh, the host of images _that_ comment brings to mind.

Edward, creeping down the stairs in his boxers shorts for a glass of water in the middle of the occasional nights he stays at the House, the lights from the tree playing over the planes of the stomach I've only ever imagined.

Edward, staring at someone in the dark.

"Okay, no nutcrackers," I agree, and the minute the word leaves my lips, I watch his face for any trace of recognition.

"Ugh," he says, shaking his head. "Talk about another creepy Christmas thing. Tell me that giant, ballet-dancing bear isn't seriously disturbing."

"The bear? What about the part with the creepy lady and all the little people that come out from under her dress?" James argues. " _That's_ weird."

"I think those were her children," Riley says, frowning. "Weren't they?"

"Either way," James says. "Weird."

Now, Edward's the one looking triumphant. He's also looking smug, but I can't see any trace of anything more in his face, any indication that he's picking up on my not-so-subtle hint.

"Too bad," I say, rallying to maintain the joviality. "I was thinking that 'creepy lady' – whose name is Mother Ginger, by the way – would have been the perfect tree-topper."

The boys – including Edward – look suitably horrified, and I can't help the laugh that bursts free. "Okay. No nutcrackers, no Mother Ginger, and no…teddy bears?" They all nod. "Got it."

* * *

 _So small a turning_  
 _The world grows older every day_  
 _An ache, a yearning_  
 _Soften when I hear you say_

 _All that I want, all that I want_

 _And when the cold wind's blowing_  
 _Snow drifts through the pine trees_  
 _In houses lights are glowing_  
 _Likewise in your eyes that find me here_

 _With all that I want._

 _(The Weepies, "All That I Want")_

* * *

 **For what it's worth, the next chapter is my favorite so far. (Provided that I don't screw it up in trying to finish it. *thumbs up*) Thanks to beckysue9999 for the peanut butter correction! xo**


	8. December 17: 8 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

* * *

 **December 17**

 **(Eight days until Christmas)**

"I come bearing ornaments," I say, holding three carrier bags aloft, and Edward's eyebrows jump.

"Enough to decorate the tree in Millennium Park?" But his anticipated Scrooge act is cut short when he spies my companion. "And I know people have different ideas of appropriate tree-toppers – stars, angels, bows – but there's no way that's going to fit."

"Oh. Right. Edward, this is Holly. Holly, Edward." I pat the dog's head.

"Holly?" As if used to her name already, the dog's ears perk up, and her tail wags – not the half-hearted, uncertain half-wag of yesterday, but a full-fledged, side-to-side sweep. "I didn't know you had a dog."

"Well, I don't, really. She's a stray. I found her while Alice and I were running yesterday. I just took her to a vet to have her checked out. The no-kill shelter isn't accepting any dogs at the moment, and I couldn't bring myself to send her to the pound. So…she's my holiday guest."

"And…Holly." It isn't a question, despite the softly teasing look in his eye and the slight cock of his head.

"Holly is a totally legitimate name."

"Hm." Edward rounds his desk slowly and crouches down, holding out a hand, palm-down. "Hey there." His voice is soft, low, soothing, and if _I_ were the focus of it, I'd have no problem surrendering completely to it, laying myself belly-up on the carpet of his office. The wary dog of yesterday is a memory; Holly walks slowly but surely toward Edward and thoroughly sniffs his hand before reaching up and licking him once along the jaw line. Lucky little punk.

Edward laughs, steadying himself with a gentle hand on the dog's new red collar. "Whoa. I thought you were shy."

"Well, she _was_."

"You know what they say," he says, smug grin in place. "Dogs are great judges of character."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, well, everyone makes mistakes."

The grin widens, but as I begin to unzip my coat, he rises and shakes his head. "No, don't—"

"What?"

He crosses the office toward me and plucks his own coat from the rack just inside the door. "Keep your coat on and come with me."

"Where?"

"Just…come. I want to give you something."

"But I don't have your gift ready—"

He holds up a hand. "Doesn't matter." But he drops his gaze to Holly, standing between us, looking up – not at me, but at Edward. "Huh. You want to hang out with the guys for a bit?"

The dog wags her tail, and Edward grins. "Okay." Poking his head into the living room where Seth, Jake, Riley, and James are engrossed in what appears to be homework, he asks, "Anybody allergic to dogs?" At the chorus of negative responses, he steps aside. "Okay. This is Bella's dog. Holly. Watch her for a bit."

Edward steps back, but I can't just walk away until I'm sure she'll be okay. I watch as she hovers on the threshold of the door, eyeing the four boys warily. She jumps slightly when an ember in the fireplace cracks with a loud pop, and Jake slides from the sofa to the floor, leaning his back against it and holding a hand out, palm up, the back of it flush against the floor. Holly watches all this with wary eyes, and I scratch her softly on the head. "It's okay," I promise, and she ducks out from under my hand, taking a tentative step forward.

"Hey," Jake says softly, making no move toward her. She approaches slowly, sniffing the floor as she draws near, then sniffing Jake's unmoving, upturned hand. "Hey," he says again. After the dog has satisfied her curiosity, she sits beside him, not close enough to touch him, but close enough to be a vote of tacit trust.

Jake glances up at me and grins – that rare, wonderful grin – and I return it before backing up slowly and turning to find Edward waiting by the front door.

Leading me out into the driveway, he rounds his nearly-old-enough-to-be-vintage Toyota pickup truck and reaches for the passenger side door handle, pulling it open with a creak that sounds not entirely unlike the one my own car door makes. It has the potential to be kind of cute, really: his-and-hers jalopies.

"Where are we going?"

He tips his head toward the waiting bench seat, but says nothing. Sliding in, I shiver slightly, watching as he circles the car to open his own door.

"Here," he says, handing me a red paper coffee cup with gold snowflakes printed all around it.

"What's this?"

"Hot chocolate," he says, putting his key into the ignition. "It's not diner hot chocolate, but Shelly made it, and it has whipped cream, so…"

It takes me a beat to catch on; when I do, it takes everything in me not to let tears gather along the rims of my eyes. He can see I'm clueing in, and he shakes his head slightly, embarrassed. "And, sadly, I don't have a police cruiser. Not that I don't wish I did, because speed limits really are inconvenient, but…"

"Edward," I say, but he's throwing the truck into reverse and backing out of the driveway, and I'm not entirely sure what I wanted to say, anyway. Instead, I peer out the window, watching houses drift by, decked out in their holiday finery. Rainbow lights and white lights and lights shaped like icicles dangling from rooftops. Illuminated reindeer in front yards and deep green wreaths with bright red bows hanging on front doors. Santas and angels and snowmen and the occasional Grinch. And, oddly, an inflatable Dallas Cowboy.

As the houses and the minutes pass, I forget about my feelings for Edward and the implications of this moment and let myself just enjoy it, let myself _feel_ Christmas in a way I haven't since Charlie died. After a short while, we start pointing out houses to each other. The grand, with their brilliant displays, and the less so, with confusing if earnest decorative choices. It isn't until we reach the outskirts of the city that I realize that, instead of crawling up and down random streets willy-nilly, Edward seems to have a destination in mind. When I ask, he says, "There's a really cool neighborhood just outside the city. I think you'd like it."

"Okay," I say, sinking back into my seat and sipping on my hot chocolate, listening as Bing Crosby croons about silent nights from Edward's tinny speakers. As we drive, the houses become larger and farther apart, and the light displays become less tacky and more tasteful. Finally, the truck swings into a circular driveway before a beautiful brick-faced house with at least ten steps leading to the front door, from which hangs a wreath with a red bow outlined in gold. Lights line the house's trim and the porch railings, and tiny wreaths hang in the top of each window, suspended by red velvet ribbons, while white candles glow from behind each pane of glass. There's a spotlight somewhere in the front lawn, trained on the front door but illuminating the entire façade of the house, and white lights are draped deliberately around each bush in the flower beds. There's a bow on the bottom of each porch railing that matches the one on the wreath, and in the circular window in the middle of what looks to be the honest-to-God third floor, there's a single, glowing star.

"Holy shit," I say, ever irreverent, and Edward laughs.

"Thought you'd like this one. It looks the same every year."

It's all of my favorite things about holiday lights: bright and soft and elegant and beautiful. "Do you think they hire someone to do this?"

He laughs again. "Probably."

"Well, there it is. I've found my dream job."

"A seasonal one, at least."

Leaning forward, I peer up at the star. If someone had tried to describe it to me, I'd have thought it sounded somewhat tacky, but glowing softly there in that lone round window, it just looks…hopeful. Promising. Like something to wish upon.

When I glance over at him, he's staring up at the house, a small smile on his lips.

"Edward?"

"Hm?"

"Why did you do this?"

When he turns his face toward me, it's all bathed in the soft green of his dashboard lights, which dulls the color of his eyes. He looks like a younger version of himself, his almost-beard and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes smoothed out by the darkness. In this second, I can almost imagine him years ago, before he decided to try to save the world. Or, at least, all the lost boys in his corner of it. "Why?" he echoes.

He's buying time, but I let him. I'd wait forever for an honest answer to this question. For a clue to the truth of how he feels about me: if it's just a fraternal or, God forbid, a paternal affection, or if it's something more. Genuine friendship. Affection. Attraction. Love? After Burl Ives makes his way through a few verses of "I'll Be Home for Christmas," Edward turns once more to gaze at the face of the house before us, all illuminated in the glow of the season.

"I know what it's like to have a dud parent," he says finally. "I know what kind of hole that can open up in a person. I wanted you to remember that even though your mom is a dud, your dad…he was the opposite. I mean, obviously, I never met him. But just based on what you've said about him…he sounds really special, Bella. And I didn't want you to forget him. Not at Christmas. I wanted you to focus on him instead of her. To remember doing this with him, instead of thinking about your mom and…wherever she is. To…be happy." When he looks at me, there's a fierceness in his eyes. "You should be happy. You _are_ happy. Bella unhappy is like…" He frowns, then finishes, "Christmas on a tropical island somewhere. There's just something…unnatural about it."

And even if it wasn't what I expected, or even what I hoped for, somehow…it's more. That he cares enough to want me to think about Charlie, that he wants for me what I want for him – happiness – it's enough, tonight, sitting here in his darkened truck with Christmas carols murmuring softly beneath our conversation and the fairy lights before us bathing everything a soft golden-white.

"Thank you," I whisper, and here in the darkness with him, in the wake of some of the kindest words anyone's ever said to me, I wish like anything that I were brave enough to reach across the bench seat and hold his hand. In this moment, I don't want to kiss him or lick him or screw him or anything else. I just want to hold his hand.

The song ends and another begins, and something in my chest flips. "This is my favorite song," I say aloud in barely more than a whisper.

Edward glances over at me again, one eyebrow arched. "You mean your favorite _Christmas_ song," he supplies, but suspicion is pulling that lone eyebrow ever higher. When I say nothing, the other eyebrow joins it. "Bella? Bella Swan. Tell me you mean your favorite _Christmas_ song, and not your favorite _song_ -song."

"Shut up," I say by way of response, and dawning understanding is pulling his lips into the teasing smile I love. I'd be sad at the disappearance of the earnestness, if not for the emergence of that smile. "It makes all the hair on the back of my neck stand up every time I hear it, no matter how many times I've heard it already. Tell me a single song you've heard on the Top 100 radio station in the past decade that's done that to you."

The smile dims slightly, and there's a look on his face I can't decipher, but Jesus, I wish I could. It's a brand new look on a wholly familiar face, and the possibility behind it makes my stomach leap. "Your favorite song," he echoes, almost to himself.

"Yeah." I barrel on, only slightly embarrassed at the fact that I'm pretty sure I'm becoming more and more ridiculous to him as time wears on, which is sort of the opposite of the effect I'd hoped to have in my last weeks working with him. "I mean, maybe that's what makes it special – that it's only ever on the radio one month out of the year. But I don't know; sometimes when I'm shuffling music it'll come on, and it still gets me, even if it's August. Okay, sure, it's not the kind of song you play at dinner parties, and you never really get to slow dance to Christmas carols, but still…it's my favorite anyway. And you can 'Bah Humbug' all over it all you want to, it's a great song."

Edward stares at me for a full minute, all affection and befuddlement and disbelief, before turning the dial up a good few notches until the chords bounce off the walls of the truck's cab. Then, he's gone, disappeared in the whirl of cold air that sweeps in from the open driver's side door. I watch in the blaring white light of his headlamps as he rounds the front of the truck and opens my door, treating me to another blast of icy air.

"Where are we going?"

"Just…get out here," he says instead of answering, and as much as I hate the cold, I'm pretty much a goner when it comes to Edward at this point. I'd likely make naked snow angels on the front lawn of rich strangers if I thought it'd keep that indecipherable look in his eyes. Or if, you know, he'd be naked right along with me.

"What are we doing? You should know that I didn't bring my TP with me, so if vandalism-inspired hijinks were on the agenda for tonight, a heads-up would have been good."

"Stop talking, Bella," he says, leaving the car door open behind me and backing away as if in challenge. When he draws to a halt, he's standing in the pool of light spilling from his car's headlights out over the snow-covered lawn. Still baffled, I watch as he holds his hands out at his sides, as if in question. "Here's your chance. I'm not much of a dancer, I admit. But I'm willing to take one for the team if it's gonna be the only chance you have to dance to your favorite song."

"I…what?"

"Consider it part of your Christmas present."

If I thought he looked kissable standing in the middle of a Christmas tree lot, it was nothing compared to him in this moment, a blanket of stars twinkling overhead, a gorgeous house glowing behind him like a giant, illuminated gingerbread house, and those words wafting from his car stereo as errant silver snowflakes drift lazily down from the dark winter sky.

 _O night divine._

Stepping into the car's makeshift spotlight, I try not to shiver when he holds out his gloved hand, and I wish with a fleeting fervor that our hands were bare, subzero temperatures be damned. He places his other hand politely at my waist and, after only the briefest hesitation, we begin swaying gently from side to side, Edward turning us in a slow circle like figure skaters in a snow globe. Barbie Dream Houses and BMX bikes be damned – I never could have had the gall to wish for a moment like this, a moment wherein I don't even want to blink, don't want to close my eyes against it for a second.

 _So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming._

"Thank you," I whisper, breath puffing out visibly into the frigid air between us.

He grins down at me, cheeks and ears growing pinker by the minute, taking me back days to a snowball fight and Edward gazing down at me in the snow. Why these minutes always happen with both of us wearing seventeen layers of clothing, I'll never know. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think it was Charlie, still proudly wearing his protective-dad-cop hat from the great beyond to meddle in the affairs of…well, me. "You're welcome."

And this is it. This moment. It's my Christmas wish, come true. Even if I don't get to have him, this is a moment I will remember for the rest of my life: when the man I loved gave me my father back for a brief moment, and then gave me this. A slow dance in the snow to my favorite song, surrounded by snowflakes and fairy lights.

As the chords of the song fade and another picks up, Edward treats me to a faintly embarrassed smile. "This is actually my favorite," he murmurs, and when I let my surprise show on my face, he hastens to add, " _Christmas_ song. Because, y'know, I'm not a freak."

"Duly noted," I reply, grateful only that he hasn't let go of me yet. While I'm surprised to find out that he even admits to having a favorite Christmas carol, I'm not at all surprised by what it is. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" somehow fits Edward perfectly, with its equal blend of hope and melancholy. "Favorite version?" I ask, as James Taylor warbles from the radio. He considers me for a second, almost as if assessing whether or not I can be trusted. I roll my eyes. "I promise I won't think you've been converted."

He battles a smile before admitting, "Sinatra."

I beam up at him in reward. "That's my favorite version, too." Tipping my head toward the car, I add, "But he isn't doing a half-bad job of it."

He shakes his head, smile spreading. "No, not half-bad at all."

We're barely turning now, barely moving in fact, our feet staying nearly planted as we simply sway from side to side.

 _Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow._

As the final chords play out, Edward gazes down at me, and I can't stop myself from saying it again. "Thank you, Edward."

"You don't have to thank me."

I do, for so much, so much more than I could ever find the words for. Mostly, I want to thank him for being _him_ – for teaching me what he's taught me, for being a friend, for being who he is, for this moment, for every single moment of the past month when loving him was nearly enough to temper missing Charlie. "I should actually be thanking you," he's saying. "For…everything you've done. For the House. But for me, too. I…I know I'm sort of a bummer about Christmas, but…you make me like it more. I haven't…really _liked_ it in awhile. So…thank you. For that."

I shake my head, wordless. He's thanking me for being me, and I want to thank him for being him – it's so perfect and so inadequate, all in the same moment. Just as the silence begins to slip down the slope toward awkward, his voice, low and gravelly, says, "Bella?" So many different things are in his voice – uncertainty, vulnerability, hesitation – that my heart trips.

"Yeah?" Hardly even a whisper, that.

He blinks once, slowly. Sniffs. Presses his lips together. "I…can't feel my face."

And even as the mood that may or may not have been there bursts and fizzles around us, I can't help laughing. "Me either." But I don't want to move, don't want to leave this shiny crystal snow globe moment, just Edward and me and the snow and the stars and the songs. And yet, I'm suddenly aware of the cold, the damp, and the fact that we're standing on the front lawn of some rich people who, given the fact that Edward's car is barely more respectable than my own, likely wouldn't hesitate to call the cops about the two loony-birds acting like idiots on their front lawn. I step back from him, smiling and clapping my hands together.

Dropping his gaze and his hands, Edward's eyebrows jump. "Hey! You finally got new gloves!"

"Oh," I say, glancing down at the red and white alpaca wool encasing my hands. "Yeah. A friend gave them to me."

He nods. "Nice. Your old ones were pretty sad. I didn't want to say anything in case you had some emotional attachment to them – I know how you are about all things winter – but they really were pathetic." His grin turns teasing. "Plus, these ones match your coat. Now you're less Michelin Man, more…snowman."

"Snow- _woman_ , thank you very much."

"Snow-woman," he amends, retracing his footsteps through the snow to stand beside my car door. Following his unspoken direction, I slip back into the passenger seat, leaning in as he pushes the door shut with a quiet thunk and gazing down at my gloves.

 _A friend gave them to me._ Whether it's Emmett, Edward, or someone else entirely, it occurs to me that I'm right. And, at the end of the day, that's pretty damn special.

* * *

"So…I'll see you tomorrow?" But it's a question, and I realize that whether or not we crossed any easily discernible line tonight, something is different.

"Yeah. Do you…I can meet you here?"

But he shakes his head. "Your place is on the way. I can pick you up."

"Okay," I say, trying to hide the small smile.

"Okay," he echoes, and he's opening his mouth to say something else when the front door of the house opens and Shelly appears in the doorway, backlit, before closing it behind her and making her way toward the stairs. In a flash, Edward is out the car door, bounding up the stairs to hold out an arm to help her.

"I didn't have a chance to salt these this afternoon," I hear him saying as I step out of the truck's cab, clutching my now-empty hot chocolate cup and hugging my coat around me. "Careful."

"Thank you, Edward," Shelly says, descending carefully. "Did you have a nice drive?"

She gives Edward a pointed look before turning her focus to me, and I hold up the empty cup. "Thank you for the hot chocolate. It was delicious."

She waves a hand. "Of course, Bella. I usually opt for marshmallows, but Edward was adamant that it be whipped cream." She shrugs. "Men. Stubborn. Been married forty-two years, and it's never been any different."

"We have our reasons," Edward says, but he's very much House Director Edward now, all traces of Dashboard-Light, Snow-Slow-Dancing Edward chased away by our return.

"Of course you do," Shelly says indulgently, patting his cheek with her gloved hand. "Well, goodnight, you two. See you tomorrow. Edward, there's leftover lasagna in the fridge. Reheat it at 350 and take it out when it starts bubbling."

"Thanks, Shelly."

"Here," I say, holding out my arm. "I'll take her the rest of the way."

Shelly's smiling as Edward holds her arm out for me to link mine through. "You two," she says, but leaves it at that.

"Goodnight Shelly," Edward says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and glancing at me, a small smile on his face. "Goodnight, Bella."

"Goodnight," I say, grateful that we're standing in the cold and any potential pinking of my face could be explained away by the chill. "Thank you again."

He nods once and turns, climbing the porch stairs. I help Shelly to her car, and as I'm putting the key into the ignition of my own, I see him, rock salt in hand, sprinkling it over the porch steps. He's barely more than a silhouette against the lights from the house, but as I recall his words from when we were stringing popcorn, I can't help admit to their truth.

 _Burly. Masculine. Strong._

I could sit for hours in my chilly car, watching him do just this, and the truth of Alice's words hits me like a snowball to the face: loving someone isn't in the romance. It's in the little moments when you're not even really doing anything. I loved him like crazy, dancing to _O Holy Night_ in the snow. But the love I have for him now, watching him salt those stairs…it's constant. Simple. Something else entirely.

He looks up and waves, and I wave back before reversing out of the driveway and heading toward home.

Just as I'm pushing the front door of my house open, my phone chirps from the pocket of my coat.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," comes Alice's voice. "I just wanted to let you know I'm staying at Jasper's tonight."

"Okay," I say, equal parts relieved and disappointed that I won't have to decide whether to divulge all the details of tonight before I've really had a chance to process them. "Tell him I said hi."

"I will. So, what was it today?"

"What?"

"Your secret Santa gift."

"Oh." I frown. "There wasn't one."

"Huh?"

Just in case I didn't notice it on the way in, I peek out through the window at the front stoop: deserted. "There wasn't one. I just got home, but there was nothing on the stoop."

"That's weird. Maybe somebody stole it?"

"Maybe," I allow, but I'm sort of baffled, myself.

It isn't until I'm in the kitchen, tossing out my coffee cup, that I notice: it's the same colors as the elegant gift wrap.

And that tiny flicker of possibility bursts to flame again.

* * *

 _Let's see the lights_  
 _Light up the sky_  
 _We'll drink cocoa_  
 _And watch the snow_

 _And oh, my heart's glowing_  
 _A life here we're sowing_  
 _And our love keeps growing_  
 _More and more_  
 _Throughout the year._

 _You make the cold disappear._

 _(Amy Stroup, "You Make the Cold Disappear")_

. . .

 **Thanks, as always, for reading. Thanks also for the kind words regarding the A/N in the last chapter; this fandom remains such a wonderful, loving place.**

 **I hope to post another chapter tonight, if my tiny ones cooperate. Holiday-cookie-sweet love to you all. xo**


	9. December 18: 7 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

 **December 18 (Seven days until Christmas)**

"So apparently it's genetic," I say into the mouthpiece of my phone, leaning against the doorjamb between my kitchen and living room, staring across the dark expanse of carpet at Alice's and my Christmas tree. It's no Redford, but it's a Mark Ruffalo: lovable and charming in its own right.

"What's genetic?"

"That whole unfit thing."

"What are you talking about?"

"Holly. I forgot my dog."

"Well, technically you said she _wasn't_ your dog. So you're less unfit mother and more…inept babysitter."

"Gee, thanks."

He laughs, and I want to drive across town in the slowly falling snow just to see his face again. To see if I can pluck up the courage to ask him, out loud, if it's him. If he's my Secret Santa. But if he isn't, and I take that swan dive off the pier only to realize there's no water beneath me…well, there's humiliation and there's complete and utter annihilation, and that would definitely be the latter. There must be a reason he's doing it this way, and as much as I want to jump the gun – nearly as much as I want to jump _him_ – I'm also willing to wait to see where he's going with it.

And if it _isn't_ Edward…I want to pretend. Just for a little while longer. Until I don't see him every day, until it won't ache every day if the end of my tenure at Grove House is also the end of…whatever Edward and I are.

"So…"

"…so?" But I can hear it in his voice, the teasing, and it has to mean something, that I know what he looks like just by the tenor of his voice. By the slight pause before the word and the minor uptick at the end of it. Never has so much been deduced by two little letters.

"Should I…come get her?" I want to. I want to curl up with her on the couch and watch a movie, and I want her to sleep at the foot of my bed, keeping my toes warm the way she did last night.

"She's okay," he says. "Lying on the couch next to Jake while the guys watch something about the Top 100 Most Embarrassing Moments of 2015, or something equally academic."

"The donut-licker has to be on the list."

"Somewhere near the top, I'd imagine." When I don't say anything, he adds, "But of course, you're welcome to come get her. I just meant that if you'd rather not come back out, she seems happy enough here. The guys have really warmed to her."

It's something I've felt on only the rarest occasions over the course of my tenure at the House: that I'm missing out on things in the hours I'm not there. When it happened in the past, I'd roll my eyes at myself and silently offer a reminder that I'm a temporary part of that place. And, really, everything about Grove House is temporary. The boys eventually either find homes elsewhere or age out. The only permanent thing, the only thing that is constant, is Edward.

"Oh. Okay, then."

"I can bring her by when I pick you up tomorrow, if you want?"

"Okay. That sounds good."

"Okay." He says nothing else, but the slight haze of awkwardness still lingers, like a mist not quite dissipated.

"Edward, thanks again. For tonight."

"You're welcome again. For tonight."

Teasing and earnest: I'll never know how he can be both in equal measure in the exact same moment, and I'll never understand the complexity of what it does to me. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, Bella."

"Goodnight."

* * *

"Wow, Bella, you look gorgeous." Alice is standing in my bedroom doorway in a pair of plaid pajama pants and one of Jasper's hooded sweatshirts. It's swimming on her, despite the fact that she's turned back both sleeve cuffs enough to show her fluted wrists, and in such baggy clothing, she sort of looks twelve.

"Really?" I pull on the hem of the small gray dress that's been living in the back of my closet for months. It's cable-knit and cowl-necked, and despite being thick, warm wool, it hugs my body and is just short enough to make me feel ever-so-slightly self-conscious. Paired with thick black tights, I'm hardly showing any skin at all, but I still feel remarkably on display.

"Really. That dress is perfect on you." She flops on the corner of my bed. "Do you have jewelry?"

I sweep my hair back to show the small silver hoops I always wear, and shrug. "They're my go-tos."

Alice frowns. "Hang on." She vanishes for a moment and reappears with her hand clenched into a fist, which she opens when she's standing before me. Lying in her palm are two tiny studs that look like Swarovski crystals globes. In fact, I _know_ they're Swarovski crystal globes, because I helped Jasper pick them out for her _last_ Christmas.

"Hell no." Alice rolls her eyes. "No, Alice. If I lost one of those, I'd never forgive myself."

"You won't lose one," she says, picking up my hand and placing the earrings in it. "They'll look terrific, and you can pull the front of your hair back so he'll see them."

I am equal parts embarrassed and relieved that neither of us feels the need to pretend that all of this effort to look pretty has anything to do with anyone in the counseling program at Logan University but everything to do with my so-called "date" for the evening. I take a deep breath, staring down at the earrings, sitting in my palm like two ice crystals impervious to the heat of my skin. My nerves are ping-ponging around my body, and I'm trying desperately to keep calm, if only so that I don't start to sweat in my wool dress. For some reason I can't quite put into cohesive thought, tonight feels like a last chance.

A last chance to see Edward outside the confines of Grove House before my involvement with the house is over.

A last chance to get him to see me as something more than his intern, and even his friend.

A last chance to get him to love me. As if a pretty dress and an expensive pair of earrings could work that magic. I sit on the corner of my bed, feeling suddenly deflated. Alice lowers herself beside me.

"Bella, you've told me a lot about Edward. And if he's too broken or too insecure or too unwilling to see how special you are and fall head over heels for you, then he doesn't deserve you, I don't care how amazing you think he is."

"Thanks, Alice." Glancing up at my friend, I force a smile. "Any advice?"

"Flirt. And if that doesn't work, get him just drunk enough to make a bad decision." She grins. "Worked on Jasper."

At that, I laugh. "Somehow I doubt Jasper needed any encouragement."

She's stopped from answering by the sound of a knock on our door, and she rises. "I'll get it." When she disappears, I watch myself in the mirror as I carefully replace my everyday small hoops with Alice's glittering studs.

My hair is shiny, my lips are glossed, and my heart is in my eyes.

Here goes nothing.

* * *

When I appear in the living room, Edward's eyebrows jump. He clears his throat and shifts his feet on the gray carpet. "Bella. Hi. Wow, you look great."

"Thank you." I want to say the same to him, but I can't see what he's wearing because he still has his coat on. His pants are dark and pressed and his shoes are shiny and utterly impractical for the cold weather. His now-nearly-full beard is trimmed and his hair is combed, and it occurs to me that his hair is _combed_ , which means he hasn't worn a hat so as not to mess it up, and suddenly I want to jump him almost as much as I want to hug him. I love him, so deeply that I ache with it. And Alice can tell, if the way she's glancing furtively at me is any indication.

Holly is standing beside him, tail wagging lazily and tongue lolling, and it's one of the things I always love about dogs: the way they always seem to look like they're smiling.

As I descend the stairs, I force myself not to ogle him. At least, not overtly. "So where did she sleep?"

"Uh…what?"

"Where'd she sleep?"

"Um. In my room." But he's blushing, and it's adorable and endearing and mildly erotic, and I can't leave it alone.

"In your room? Or on your bed?"

He rolls his eyes. "She wouldn't take no for an answer, okay? She's very persistent."

 _Lucky. Little. Punk._ Holly is watching me, tail still slowly wagging, as if she knows exactly what shade of green my envy is, despite her supposed colorblindness. I've never seen a dog look smug before, but she's managing it nicely.

"Harlot," I mumble, and her tail wags with increased fervor. Edward laughs.

"She really is. Completely shameless. And she's a bed hog." But he bends at the waist and scratches behind her ears. True to form, she rolls her head into his touch and brushes up against the leg of his dark pants, leaving a dusting of hair in her wake.

"Marking her territory," I mutter, and Edward laughs again.

"Duly noted." Another scratch behind her ear, and he takes a step away, dusting off his pants. "Ready?"

"Ready," I say, glancing over at Alice, who beams.

"You kids have fun," she sings, closing the door behind us, and the minute I feel the cold air envelop me, I shiver.

Once we're in his truck – which he left running while he was in my house, and as a result was nice and toasty by the time I slid into it – I feel as though I'm back inside the cocoon with the slow-dancing-in-the-snow Edward from last night, and a large chunk of my tension melts away with same immediacy as the snowflakes that hit the windshield and immediately melt into nothingness. I sneak glance at him, his face bathed in alternating green of the dashboard lights and red of the brake lights in front of us. He's my very own Christmas light display, a million times more beautiful.

"So, I feel like this is a stupid question, but…ready for Christmas?"

I laugh. "Just about. I just need to figure out a gift for Alice. She's just…she's been amazing. She was going to go home for Christmas but now she's staying here. Which I think has something to do with my mother, but which she denies."

"That's a good friend."

"Yeah."

When I say nothing else, he glances over at me. "Feeling any better about your mom?"

And, remarkably, I am. I don't know if it's just distraction the season has afforded me or the words from both Alice and Edward, but…I do. I'm making at least a temporary peace with it, if only to get through the holiday and to a point where I have more time and energy to dissect it. But this is too convoluted a response to Edward's simple question, so I simply nod. "I'm…debating what to do with her Christmas gift."

"Oh. What did you get her?"

"A silver frame with 'Mom' engraved on it." I attempt to force some levity into my voice. "You could always give it to Esme."

He shakes his head. "I don't…call her that."

"Mom?"

"Yeah." He checks his blind spot and switches lanes. "She…said I could. When I first moved in with them. But…it was too soon. And then…" He trails off, eyes focused on the line of red tail lights ahead of us. "I don't know. I just…got used to calling her Esme. I think she sort of hoped I'd start, but…" He shrugs. "I never really needed to call her that, you know? I called someone Mom when I was a kid, and it didn't…it wasn't enough. To make her strong enough. To make her take care of me. I guess…I preferred her just to stay Esme. Esme meant something more to me than 'Mom' did."

"That's…" A million things I can't find words for. Sweet. Heartbreakingly so. Honest, even more. But also sad in a way I can't quite nail down. At the end of the day, I guess "mom" is just a word; it's how a woman wears it that matters, that gives it its power.

"I know. It doesn't really make sense."

"No, it does."

"I still sometimes think she wishes I'd called her that. I mean, nobody else ever will, y'know? I was sort of her chance. But…" His voice fades. "She's Esme."

"I'm sure she understands, Edward." I can see the faint frown on his face in the glow of taillights and streetlights. "Have you picked her present yet?"

"No. I know, I suck. I need to do that. She always goes so nuts over Christmas…" He gives me a pointed sideways glance, and I laugh, relieved by the amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, _no_ , you're surrounded by Christmas-obsessed women. You poor, poor man."

"It's very trying," he agrees, flipping his indicator on as we approach the campus. "But it does come with cookies and various other edible benefits, so I'm trying to make my peace with it." His elbow grazes mine as he downshifts, and try as I might not to notice, not to feel anything, I do.

But if I thought that was thrilling, it's nothing compared to the way he links his arm with mine to escort me into the building after he parks, waving haphazardly at the generously-salted sidewalk leading into the building and muttering something about my ridiculous choice of footwear.

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure you'd fare much better. I don't think I've ever seen you in anything but sneakers."

"Exactly. This looks chivalrous, but really, I'll be holding on for dear life in the event that we hit an ice patch."

"I'm pretty sure I'm incapable of keeping you upright, in the event that you slip."

"Well, then we're both going down in a blaze of glory," he replies, grinning at me in the early darkness. For a quick moment, I remember what it felt like to be beneath his warm body, ignorant of the cold snow seeping through the denim of my jeans, and I wonder what it says about my sanity that I'd gladly bite it on a slippery sidewalk if it meant I got to feel the full weight of him atop me again. Then again, concrete is pretty much guaranteed to result in some pretty serious damage.

"I'd better wind up on top," I retort, and it speaks to how far gone my mind is that I don't even give a thought to the words until they're out of my mouth. His eyes are wide and shining in the darkness, and I'm fairly certain mine look exactly the same. "Shit. That sounded…I mean…I didn't…"

"I'd never have pegged you for the dominant type," he says after a few more seconds of my floundering, and if it were possible for my eyes to go any wider, they would have. He's grinning in glee, completely thrilled at my uncharacteristic speechlessness, but the moment ends when a small knot of people appears on the sidewalk behind us.

After we check our coats, we step into the greater room, where small clusters of students, faculty, and people I can only assume are practicum and internship supervisors, are milling about.

Dr. Francis, my program supervisor, spots us as we appear in the doorway, and beams, excusing herself from the small knot of faculty and making her way over to us. "Bella! Welcome!"

"Thanks, Dr. Francis. This is Edward Cullen."

"Mr. Cullen, of course, it's so nice to meet you, finally. Your work with Grove House, it's..." She trails off, looking for a word I've been seeking for over a year. "It's wonderful."

"Thank you. And please…Edward."

"Edward." Dr. Francis's eyes flick to me. "I don't think I'm speaking out of turn when I tell you that Bella's been the star of our program for the past year."

Edward grins down at me. "She's been invaluable to us, too."

Dr. Francis beams. "I'd love to talk more with you about your facility, but we do try to avoid _too_ much shop-talk at these things."

Edward nods. "Anytime."

She gestures toward the bar set up toward the back of the room. "The eggnog is fantastic," she murmurs before excusing herself to greet another student who has just entered the room.

Edward and I make our way toward the bar. "This has nothing to do with Christmas, I promise," he says softly, and I fight not to shiver as his breath tickles my ear. "But I think eggnog is one of the more disgusting things I've ever tasted."

"Well, I'd give you shit for proving your Scroogieness once again, but on this point, I actually agree with you."

He rears back, eyes wide with feigned shock. "What? You're telling me there's something Christmassy that Bella Swan can't get behind?"

I make a face. "Bite me. But seriously. It's made with whipped eggs. You're basically drinking sweetened scrambled eggs, and that's gross."

"I can't tell you what a relief it is to know that this season doesn't _entirely_ rob you of your good sense."

"No, not entirely," I concede.

"In that case, what _will_ you be drinking tonight?"

"We're offering the White Christmas as our festive cocktail this evening," the bartender pipes up, and the teasing arch of an eyebrow paired with a sideways glance gives away the fact that Edward knows before I even answer that I'll be giving it a shot. "It's a delicious blend of heavy cream, vodka, crème de cacao, and peppermint schnapps, garnished with a miniature candy cane."

Edward chuckles, holding up a finger. "One White Christmas, and I'll have a Sam Adams Winter." As the bartender turns to fill the order, Edward smiles down at me. "I can't bring myself to drink something with a candy cane garnish, I'm afraid, so a winter lager is my concession to festive beverages. Okay?"

I grin back up at him, and I don't even care if how smitten I am is broadcast on my face. "Okay."

He nods, and when the bartender slides our drinks toward us, Edward stuffs a few bills into the tip jar at the end of the counter. My drink is beautiful: frothy white in a martini glass with a tiny candy cane hooked over its rim. We step away from the bar, and when I take a sip, I have to consciously tell myself not to let my eyes roll back into my head like a drunk. "Oh my God, that's good."

"Really?" Edward's skepticism is obvious.

"Really. It's like…" I take another sip. "It's Christmas in a glass."

"So…right up your alley."

" _Right_ up my alley," I agree. "You have to try it." He makes a face. "Come _on_ ," I press. "What if this is your favorite drink ever, and you never know it because you're too macho to try it?"

"Macho," he echoes, eyeing my glass balefully. "There's an adjective I haven't heard since _Miami Vice_ went off the air."

" _Miami Vice?_ Jesus, how old _are_ you?"

"Old enough," he allows, still making no move to take my glass. "Also, even if that does turn out to be my favorite drink, the idea that you think I'd make a habit of ordering it is pretty hilarious."

I lean in close, close enough to smell the faint aftershave that I detected in the car. "Hey, Edward?"

"Hm?"

"It's showing."

He glances down at his fly, and it takes everything in me not to laugh. "Huh?"

"Your Scrooge. It's showing."

"Now there's a euphemism," he replies, but finally, he reaches for my glass. He takes a small sip, and the intimacy of it makes the ever-present glow of my longing surge. Straightening, he licks a tiny fleck of white froth from his upper lip and hands me my glass. "Okay. I concede. That's pretty good."

I grin in triumph, to which he responds by holding his beer bottle aloft. "I'm still sticking with Sam."

I roll my eyes, but any further teasing is interrupted by the appearance of Emmett at Edward's elbow. "Hey, Bella," he says, nodding. He looks handsome in a dark suit, his dark hair newly cropped, dark shoes shiny. "Edward."

Edward half-turns and takes a step back to make our trio into a semicircle. "Hey, Emmett. No boombox tonight?" What easily could have been a barb is softened by the friendly smile on Edward's face and the hand he extends for Emmett to shake.

Emmett, to his credit, blushes as he accepts the proffered handshake. "Yeah, I'm really sorry about that. That was…a byproduct of too much liquor and too little sleep. I apologized to Bella for embarrassing her, but I never apologized to you, and I should have. I'm sorry. That was really inappropriate, and I wasn't thinking at the time about how I could have jeopardized her internship."

Edward shrugs. "Don't worry about it. Really. We've all been there."

Emmett smiles, but the mild embarrassment doesn't completely leave his features. Just then, one of the faculty advisers appears to encourage us to find our seats, and as Emmett wanders off, I lean toward Edward. "We've all been there?"

He shrugs. "Well, I haven't exactly lofted a boombox for a curbside serenade, but…" He pulls out my chair, and I make a conscious effort not to act like a lovestruck dolt. "We've all done stupid things under the combined influence of booze and love."

Alice's seemingly frivolous advice from earlier suddenly seems potentially sage. _Get him just drunk enough to make a bad decision._ But he's driving, and I can already tell that I shouldn't be behind the wheel after the second White Christmas I already plan on drinking, and I don't think driving drunk was quite the bad decision she was referring to.

"Yeah," I say like the brilliant conversationalist I am, and I settle as he pulls out his own chair and lowers himself into it. I introduce Edward to the classmate sitting beside me, who introduces me to her fiancée and her own practicum supervisor, and no sooner are the introductions done than the salad course appears.

Edward finds himself in conversation with the practicum supervisor to his left about the shortcomings of the city school system's counseling services while I listen to a fellow almost-graduate talk about trying to find a job. When she asks me what my plans are, I give her the quick, bare-bones explanation of my options: social services here in Chicago, or (possibly) a position in Boston. I realize after I outline them that Edward, despite still holding a conversation, is watching me. When I meet his eye, he smiles slightly before returning to his own discussion.

 _Hello, confusing, befuddling, enigmatic, eternally frustrating man._

Dinner passes with more small talk around the table, and it isn't until dessert is being placed in front of us that I realize how little I've actually talked to _Edward_ over the course of the meal. Between the polite chatter with our tablemates and the sort-of program being conducted at the front of the room, he and I have barely exchanged any words more meaningful than, "Is that my side plate?" and "Is this ranch or bleu cheese dressing?"

I don't realize how completely and totally I've spaced out until Edward is nudging my elbow, grinning and clapping. "What?"

"Go, Bella." He tips his head toward the front of the room, and I realize that, while I was busy obsessing, I've apparently won some sort of award. People are clapping and I can see Dr. Francis standing beside the podium with some sort of small plaque, and while I'm flattered, the idea of walking up to the front of the room with all eyes – with _those_ eyes – on me is sort of my idea of hell on Earth. But I make it to the front and back without incident, and when I'm back in my seat, I glance down at the plaque.

 _Departmental Excellence Award_

 _Bella Swan_

"Congratulations, Bella," Edward murmurs, his face close to mine, and despite the people clapping and the table of six others around us, for this moment, it's the evening I wanted. Edward, me, and nothing else.

Following the quick conclusion of the program, the hall begins to empty out rather quickly. Edward and I make our way toward the coat check, and just after he helps me into mine, Emmett materializes beside me, his own plaque for some award I missed tucked beneath his arm. How much time did I spend spaced out, for crying out loud?

"Hey, a bunch of us are going out for drinks to celebrate. You coming?"

"Oh." I glance toward Edward, who's sliding his arms into his coat.

Following my gaze, Emmett adds, "Of course, you're invited too, Edward. The more, the merrier."

Edward, though, shakes his head. "Thanks. I appreciate the invitation. But I need to get back to the house." He shifts his gaze to me. "But you should go. Celebrate. You deserve it."

I'm opening my mouth to protest when Emmett replies for me.

"I'll make sure she gets home," he says, settling his heavy hand on my shoulder and squeezing. I see Edward see the gesture, and I want to duck out from beneath Emmett's hand nearly as much as I want to read him the riot act for speaking in my place. There's a look of indecision on Edward's face for a moment before he glances once more between Emmett and me before nodding.

"Of course," he says, fixing the collar of his coat before holding his hand out to Emmett. "It was good to see you again."

Emmett accepts the handshake. "Yeah, likewise."

When he looks back to me, it's like something has vanished, though I can't place what. But there was something in his face mere moments ago that isn't anymore, and the loss of it makes me want to cry and argue and claw, even as I don't know what I'm scrabbling for. "Congratulations again, Bella. Have fun tonight." As Emmett turns to say something to another one of our classmates, Edward leans in. "If for some reason you do need a ride, though, call me. Sam or I will come pick you up. Okay?"

 _Sam or I._ Like I'm one of the Grove House kids. His words are snowflakes sliding down my spine, cooling any residual heat from the euphoria of spending the evening with him.

"I'll be fine. Thanks."

He steps back, watching me for a moment before nodding and turning to go. As I watch his back disappear through the doors of the room, I feel all of my hopes for the evening – my hopes for _us_ – break like an icicle that falls from an eave and crashes on the concrete below.

* * *

While the White Christmas cocktail was lovely and delicious and elegant, it has to be said: candy cane shots are nearly as tasty and achieve the same end result a lot quicker.

The small bar my classmates and I have appropriated for our spur-of-the-moment celebration is pleasantly soft around the edges, the holiday lights strung up along the edge of the bar slightly blurry and the Christmas tree in the corner a bit fuzzier than normal. The only thing that hasn't gone soft with liquor is the sharp disappointment somewhere between my chest and stomach.

Emmett drops a heavy arm across my shoulders and very nearly knocks me from my barstool. "Can you believe it? We're done. _Done_. I never thought I'd see the day." He's grinning, and I'd sort of forgotten how much I _like_ Emmett, even if I couldn't love him.

"Me either," I admit, realizing in this moment that with all of the anxiety I've been feeling about the looming end of my tenure at Grove House paired with the uncertainty about my apparently unrequited feelings for Edward, I haven't let myself feel the relaxation at the reality that I'm officially done with my degree. There are no more papers, no more unpaid hours, no more academics in my future. I'm _finally_ finished. "Holy shit," I add, and Emmett grins down at me.

"Just sinking in, huh?"

"I guess so."

"You find a job yet?"

I think about Rochester House. About social services. About Grove House. "Not yet," I say with a deflective shrug. "Still weighing options. You?"

"Got an offer from the school system," he replies. "Thinking I'll probably take it. It's a good starting point, if nothing else."

"Hey, Em, that's great. You'll be great at that." And he will. One of the many things I liked about him is how open and approachable and straightforward he is. All of those things will be great assets for someone working with kids.

He beams. "Thanks, Bella."

I nod and take a sip of the cranberry cocktail I've been using to chase the candy cane shots; as the room's haziness flirts with becoming disorienting, I decide to say no when the shot tray comes around again. My classmates are clinking glasses around us, and a couple of them are dancing to "Jingle Bell Rock" at the opposite end of the bar, and sitting in the middle of such festiveness with such a cold, hard stone of disappointment in the pit of my stomach makes me feel like an impostor. I look up at Emmett, wishing we could just fast-forward to the friends portion of the program so that I could let loose on him, crying into my drink about how stupidly in love I am with someone who is either oblivious or too chicken-shit to make a move, or hedging his bets, or…my head hurts. I should not be trying to figure this out with God knows how much peppermint schnapps in my system. Then I remember my Secret Santa gifts, and how I was so convinced it was Emmett until last night, when I would have sworn it was Edward, and right now, squinting up at Emmett in the festive holiday lights of the bar, my mind is a complete and utter swirling snowstorm of confusion.

Then, suddenly, as Paul McCartney sings the most annoying Christmas song on the planet from the speakers overhead, Emmett's mouth is pressed to mine. He tastes like liquor and ChapStik, and even as it's happening, I'm already thinking about the wrong mouth, the wrong taste, the wrong man. Pushing against his chest, I pull back. "Emmett—"

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, taking a step back. "I'm sorry, Bella. Shit. I didn't mean to—well, no, I did mean to kiss you, but I didn't mean to…I know you said you want to be friends. I didn't—"

"It's okay," I say quickly, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth, wishing immediately for the taste of White Christmas instead of cheap liquor and my ex-boyfriend's mouth.

"Shit," he mutters, dragging a hang over his face. "Bella, that was a really dick move. I'm really sorry."

" _Emmett_. It's okay. Stop. It—" But I trail off. It's okay because I know he feels badly about it, but it's not okay because I still don't want it. I still don't want _him._

"I should get you home," he says softly, dark eyes sad and sorry.

"Yeah," I say, but then I realize that he's been drinking right along with me, and I wave at the bar. "But—"

"Cab," he says, but I shake my head.

"I'm okay. I can get one myself."

"Is Alice home?"

"Yeah." I squint. "Also…I have a dog now."

His eyebrows lift. "A dog?"

"Well. Kind of. She's…visiting. A stray, I guess. But…I was thinking about keeping her. But now…" I think of the way she gazed at Edward, the way she settled with Jake, how content she seemed in that house, with all of its activity. Then I think about leaving her in my empty house all day, while Alice is teaching and I'm working at social services, if I stay in Chicago, and I realize that I'm not exactly at the ideal point in my life to have a dog. My heart hurts at the knowledge that there's something else I'm going to have to set free, even if it's for the best. I don't realize that I'm tearing up until Emmett ducks his head to see my face better.

"Hey, Bell, what is it?"

"Nothing," I say, shaking my head. "I'm just…drunk. And tired. And…overwhelmed. I just…need to sleep." It's what Charlie always said: the sunrise has a way of bringing with it a whole new outlook. All I can do right now is hope that, tomorrow, without peppermint schnapps comprising a considerable percentage of my blood volume, things won't look so bleak. Emmett simply nods, helping me into my coat and off my stool, and standing in commiserating silence on the curb in the freezing cold while I wait for my cab to arrive.

By the time I get home, I'm done for. I don't bother to shower, slipping into pajamas and curling up in bed with Holly on my feet. Alice is nowhere to be found, certainly at Jasper's, and the idea that she might have made herself scarce in the event of…it hurts to much to even contemplate.

For the second day, there's no gift on the front stoop.

Whether it was Edward or the far more likely Emmett, it's over.

It's just…over.

* * *

 _It's coming on Christmas_

 _They're cutting down tress_

 _They're putting up reindeer_

 _And singing songs of joy and peace_

 _Oh, I wish I had a river_

 _I could skate away on._

 _(Joni Mitchell, "River")_

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. Hoping to post again later.**

 **Merry Christmas Eve to those who celebrate. My kids are OFF. THE. HOOK. xo**


	10. December 19: 6 days until Christmas

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

* * *

 **December 19: 6 days until Christmas**

There's something about graduation ceremonies that's like Christmas, in a way: full-to-bursting with anticipation, threaded through with the barest hint of the blues. Everyone's looking forward to the future, but there's a wistfulness that comes with the knowledge that the door is very firmly closing on a chapter of our lives. That there are people in the room with us who we will likely never see again, despite the fact that they've been pretty regular fixtures in our lives for the past two years.

Standing in a line with the traditional black robe hanging around me, I force myself to focus on the present moment. This is the culmination of my academic career. I've been in some school or another since I was four years old; after today, I will cease to be a student. The memory of my first day of school – the pigtails it took Charlie four tries to get right, the shiny Mary Jane shoes, the too-big backpack – floats at the edges of my mind, and I close my eyes for a brief second, thinking about my father and his adamant insistence that I commit myself to my studies. While he only ever alluded to it abstractly, I know there was something in him that felt like being blue-collar was…inadequate. Whether it was my mother's selfish and callous dismissal of his small-town, civil servant life as "not enough" for her, or the fact that we always had just enough to get by but never much more, despite how hard he worked…I was never able to nail it down, but as I got older, I saw that faint trace of it in him. The fear that he wouldn't be able to give me what I needed. And, later, the determination that I'd always be able to make my own way. That I'd be educated enough to _choose_ my own way.

I wish he were here now. Not because it's Christmas, not because I want him to see me walk across that stage, but because I want him to know. I want to tell him, now that I'm old enough to understand: he was always enough. What we had was always enough. With my understanding, now, of what the world holds – the Edwards and the Jakes and the Rileys and all the rest of them – I see, truly, how much we had. How much _I_ had.

I wish I could tell him.

As we file into the small auditorium to the plodding bars of "Pomp and Circumstance," I gaze around at the crowd sea of faces. Parents, friends, families, spouses, lovers, siblings. Rounding the corner to walk into my row, I spot Alice and Jasper sitting a few rows back from the front; when our eyes meet, they both grin and wave. Smiling, I wave back before finding my seat.

The small ceremony is predictably dull; the December graduates are a small bunch when compared to the large slew of students that will graduate in May. That the university even goes to the trouble of having a graduation ceremony at all is nice. Despite the admittedly interesting speaker, there's that familiar energy in the air: let's get this over with. Then we're standing again, and the dean is reading off names as he confers diplomas. When Emmett's name is called, I hear Alice and Jasper whooping like football fans from behind me, and I smile when he glances over at his brother, dimpled and grinning. And, when it's my turn, I hear the same racket again. It warms me from the inside when I peek over my shoulder to see my best friend and her boyfriend standing and whooping like lunatics, and I have to bite my lip against the threat of happy tears. "Thank you," I manage to say to Dean Whitfield as I accept my degree and make my way to the opposite side of the stage.

What's left of the ceremony passes in a blur, and before I know it, I'm adrift in the sea of families and friends searching for their graduates. I wander, only halfheartedly looking for Alice and Jasper, wanting to make sure that they find Emmett first, but when I feel a hand clamp around my elbow and I turn, Alice is standing there beaming, eyes bright. "Congratulations, Bella! I'm so proud of you!" And before I can respond, I'm enveloped in her surprisingly strong arms. There's no sign of Jasper, no awkwardly hovering Emmett, so I let myself hug her back, hard, surprised by my own swell of relieved gratitude.

"Thanks, Alice."

She pulls back, her eyes sympathetic and searching. It's as if she knows my dirty little secret: I'd been hoping to spot Edward in the crowd, despite the fact that I know he's the only one on at the House today. Despite the fact that I'm pretty sure that, whatever the thin thread of possibility stretching between us was, it snapped last night. "I think we need to get drunk and celebrate."

I groan, the memory of last night's "celebration" still a very present echo in my temples. "I have a phone interview in two hours," I remind her, and she wrinkles her nose.

"Oh. Right. Boston."

I laugh at the barely contained distaste in her voice. "Yeah. Boston."

"Okay. Well, then, lunch, at least."

"Lunch sounds good."

And it is. Despite Emmett's presence and the tiny hint of awkwardness that lingers – likely due to the fact that we can't really hash anything out with Alice and Jasper in company – lunch is perfect, a small celebration with three of the people who mean the most to me in this new city I've chosen as home. And I'm almost certain, now, as we sit in our chairs, the debris of lunch scattered across the table as Alice recounts the chaos that was her classroom on the last day of school before the holiday, that I'm not going to Boston. That Angela Cheney could offer me the world this afternoon, and I'm not going anywhere. This is my home. These are my friends. I don't need some big declaration from a man to make me stay: I'm staying for me. Because, the anguish of loving someone I may never get notwithstanding, this is my home. I'm happy here. I have a life here, and an offer of a job that will let me help people. In this moment, in the company of my friends, it feels like enough.

Jasper and Alice pick up the check, despite Emmett's and my protests, and as we all spill out into the parking lot, Emmett and I exchange an only slightly awkward hug as Alice extends the invitation for Christmas dinner. He glances at me briefly, and I nod. When he accepts, I'm surprised by my own relief. Again, I can feel how it might be if we ever make our way into genuine friendship, and I like it.

An hour later, I'm on the phone with Angela, telling her thanks but no thanks. As impressed and, yes, awed as I am by their facility, my heart is in Chicago. My heart is in helping the _kids_ in Chicago. The Jakes and the Rileys and the Seths and the Jameses and the once-upon-a-time-Edwards. I know without leaving that I'd miss it here.

When I hang up, Alice's smiling face appears almost immediately around my bedroom doorjamb, and I laugh. "Eavesdropper."

"You're staying?" she asks, not bothering to argue my accusation.

"I'm staying," I agree, and she shrieks, bounding into the room and leaping onto the bed to grab me in a ferocious hug.

"I'm so glad. I know I told you, but God, I'd have missed you if you left."

"I'd have missed you guys, too." Holly chooses this moment to leap onto my bed, and as she settles between us and I stroke her fur, I say to Alice, "What would you think about…giving Holly to the House?" At Alice's surprised look, I add, "Neither of us is here all that much. And there's always someone there. And…she really seemed to like the guys. And—"

"I think it's a great idea," she cuts me off.

"Really?"

"Yeah." She shrugs. "I didn't want to say anything, but…you're right. Neither of us is really ever here. And, according to our lease, we're not actually supposed to have a dog in the house." She looks faintly sheepish at this little revelation.

"What? Why didn't you tell me that?"

Another shrug. "Because if you wanted her, we'd have figured something out. At worst, she could have stayed with Jasper while we looked for another place."

And even though I've known for a while what an amazing friend she is, the knowledge hits me with renewed force. "Thank you, Alice."

"Of course," she says, ruffling the fur on Holly's neck. "So…any new deliveries?"

I shake my head. "That's done."

"What? Done? Why?"

"It's just…over."

She narrows her eyes. "What the hell _happened_ last night?"

But I don't quite know where to start, with the Edward and Emmett of it all. I'm not even sure I _can_ explain it, that feeling that I had, and that I've since lost. The bubble of possibility, the faint shimmer of potential. I think back over the brief little marathon of gifts: the popcorn and the chocolates and the gloves and—

"Hey," I say suddenly. "What are you guys doing tonight?"

"Me and Jasper? Nothing. Why?"

"You guys should take the Nutcracker tickets."

Alice frowns. "But you like it. Why don't you and I go?"

I shake my head. "Honestly, I'm not really feeling up to it. I drank too much last night, and I honestly don't have it in me to get all gussied up a second night in a row. I'd really like it if you guys went."

I can tell by the look on her face that she wants to press the issue, but after a searching look of my face, she finally just nods. "Okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome. And…thank you guys. I'm…I want you to know how lucky I feel to have you both."

"We're the lucky ones, Bella." She leans in and gives me an awkward hug over the bulk of the dog's body. "Don't give up hope," she murmurs in my ear, but she pulls back and disappears out my bedroom door before I can say anything in response.

* * *

The next two days pass in a whirl. On Tuesday, I gather up the few supplies I've procured for Holly – a pair of bowls, a leash, a chew toy she hasn't shown the slightest interest in – and drive her over to Grove House. I know by the way she bounds up the porch stairs, tail wagging so hard that the back end of her body is wriggling, that I'm making the right decision. The reserved dog of mere days ago is a memory: she bounds up to Edward and leans her full weight against his lower legs, gazing up at him with adoring eyes as he bends and rubs her sides. Jake gets a similarly affectionate but slightly less frenzied nuzzle of welcome, and she does a loop of the rest of the guys before settling on Edward's feet beneath his desk.

"That's cozy," he says, glancing beneath the desk. "If I got dogs for everyone, I could save a small fortune on heat."

"Which you'd promptly have to spend on kibble," I volley, even though my heart's not fully in it.

"True," he allows, looking back up at me. "Congratulations," he adds. "You're officially done."

 _Done._ "Yeah. I'm done."

"You're free of me," he adds with a smile, but it doesn't seem like an Edward smile. It seems like someone else's smile. A mask that has nothing to do with his full beard. For a second, I'm sort of glad I can't see his smooth, unobscured face.

"Thank God." But I have to look away from that strange smile. Not the teasing one, not the affectionate one, not the one I couldn't quite place but that gave me a funny, fizzy feeling in my stomach. I reach into my bag and pull out the small gift-wrapped box with his watch in it. When I hold it out to him, he stands.

"What's this?"

"Your Christmas present."

"Oh. Okay. Hang on." He bends at the waist to rummage in his bottom desk drawer, and I take a second to eye his forest green sweater. No elbow patches. Just a deep evergreen, a pretty darn close match for his eyes. And for Redford. "Here." He straightens, and in his hand is a small gift bag with a puff of white tissue paper sticking out of the top of it.

"Thank you."

His smile turns faintly more familiar. More teasing. More Edward. "You haven't even opened it yet. What if it's coal?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"No. You're right. I wouldn't dare."

We're both hovering awkwardly. "Should I…open it now?"

"Does that go against your Christmas code, to open a gift before the day?"

It does, but I don't admit it. I want too badly to see the look on his face when he opens his watch. "No."

"Okay then." He tears into the wrapping paper on his gift and when he opens the small black box, his eyebrows rocket upward. "Jesus, Bella."

"It seemed…pretty functional. And classic. It…reminded me of you. But if you don't like it or something, I put the gift receipt in the bottom of the box. You can—"

"I love it," he cuts me off, pushing his left sweater sleeve up his forearm and slipping the watch from the box. "Bella, you should _not_ have done this."

"I wanted to." My voice is barely audible as I watch him wrap the leather strap around his wrist and fasten it in place. Just as I had wanted to. He glances from the watch's face up into mine. "This is too much," he says, but I shake my head.

"I…wanted to thank you. As well as to say Merry Christmas. You've…done a lot for me. I wanted you to know." I want him to know so much, but I'll settle for this. For the understanding of all he's given me.

"Thank you," he says, and his earnestness chips away at my residual melancholy.

"You're welcome." I glance down at the bag in my hands. "My turn?"

"Oh. Yeah. It's…well, you'll see when you open it."

I pull out the tissue and feel the weight of something small but sturdy nestled within it. Unwrapping carefully, I uncover a small white ornament of a pair of birds.

"It's…the two turtle doves," he says, and when I look up at him, he looks sheepish. "The guys were watching _Home Alone_ last week – the New York one – and the kid gives that lady the two turtle doves ornament. There was a whole spiel, but basically…you've been a good friend to me, Bella. I know I'm not great at showing it. Or…talking about it, either. But I wanted you to know that I do know it."

I'm nodding, gazing down at the gorgeous pair of birds in synced flight. It's a beautiful gift. As is the sentiment behind it. "It's gorgeous, Edward."

He grins, looking relieved. "And it seemed appropriate to get the number one cheerleader of Christmas an ornament."

I smile, but the significance doesn't escape me: I've given him something to look at every day, and he's given me something to look at once a year. "I love it." And I do. Even if it isn't the declaration I'd hoped for…I still love it. "Thank you."

"So even if you go to Boston, you won't forget us."

"Even if I were going to Boston, I'd never forget you."

He looks surprised. "You're staying?"

I nod. "I'm staying."

When he smiles again, I recognize this one. "I'm glad."

I feel my own smile spread. "Me too."

* * *

On Thursday, I call Rosalie to accept her job offer and invite her over for Christmas dinner. When she protests and I reassure her that it's not a big family dinner but a gaggle of strays, it occurs to me that maybe there are just people in the world like that: people meant to find each other, people meant to be found. Alice and me, Edward and the Cullens, Rosalie and me, Alice and Jasper. The boys and the House. I think ruefully about all of the ones still out there, wandering, but I have to have hope that they're all wandering somewhere. To someone. That the wandering isn't hopeless, but hopeful: the belief that they're going somewhere, even if they don't know where. I know, now, that the same holds true for me: that, for the first time since I lost Charlie, I have somewhere belong. I have people to whom I belong. It's the first time I've felt _home_ in years.

When I get off the phone, I cajole Alice and Jasper into driving around with me to look at lights. We hit the Starbucks drive-thru for hot chocolates and a coffee for Jasper, and we cruise the streets, and whether they're humoring me or really into it, I find myself wrapped in their laughter and their love. I try to find the neighborhood Edward took me to but I can't, and I get us lost in the outskirts of the city instead. Alice is the worst navigator on the planet, and Jasper's patience is endless, and by the time we're driving down the same street for the third time, Alice and I are laughing so hard we're crying, and Jasper is shaking his head as he drives, but his shoulders are shaking.

"Remind me never to let you navigate again," he says, squinting through the windshield at street signs. "You have zero directional abilities."

Through her giggles, Alice says, "Good thing I have other skills."

"Good thing," he agrees. "But our kids better take after me in the navigational department."

Alice is still laughing. "Our kids, huh? Think you missed a few steps there, bucko."

Pulling to a stop at an intersection, he glances at her across the center console. "Did I?"

Her laughter fades, but she's still smiling. "You did."

He nods, and even though the intersection is clear, he doesn't go anywhere. "Important ones?"

She shrugs. "Some would say."

"Huh." His fingers drum on the steering wheel, and from the back seat, I hold my breath. I think I know where he's going with this, even as I can't quite believe he's going to do it now, here, in a car in the middle of a darkened road with me in the backseat. Suddenly, his hand disappears from the steering wheel before reappearing from the direction of his pocket with a small velvet box, which he places on the dashboard. "Like…that one, maybe?"

She isn't laughing now. "Jasper."

"Alice, I have reservations for dinner on Christmas Eve night. I was going to do this then. But I can't wait until tomorrow. I can't. We're lost in the middle of…I don't even know where, and you _suck_ at reading maps, and if it were anyone else making me loop around in endless circles, I'd want to throttle them, but with you, I just want to kiss the everlovin' hell out of you. And that's it. Even when you drive me crazy, I love you to the point of hurting with it. And I've never wanted to marry you more than I do right this second. And I couldn't go another night without telling you. So if you want me to put that box back in my pocket and get down on one knee tomorrow night and do it up, I will absolutely do that. But I have no idea where I am, and my coffee is cold, and we're low on gas, and I'm still happier than I've ever been. And I want to marry you. I hate being lost, but I'd be lost with you every day if meant I got to keep you."

"Jasper," Alice says again, but it's whispery and tinged with tears.

"I love you," he adds, as if realizing there are a few boxes on the "how-to-propose-marriage" checklist he hasn't hit yet. "I want to be _this_ happy always. And I want you to laugh like _that_ always. So…marry me. Ring tonight or ring tomorrow, tell me you'll marry me."

"I'll marry you," she says immediately, and in profile, I can see the tears on her cheeks, lit silver by the dashboard lights.

Jasper grins, and as much as I feel like an imposter, I'm so overjoyed that I got to be witness to this moment. "Yeah?"

Alice nods, the bobble on her hat dancing. "Yeah."

Despite his assertion that he'd wait, Jasper snatches the small box off the dashboard. "Can I? Now?"

"Please." When he opens it, Alice gasps. It takes everything in me not to crane my neck for a better look, but I'm trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Instead, I settle for watching her face, and immediately, I'm glad I did. The joy in her eyes is absolute, and it warms me through just to see it. "Jasper," she says again.

"I love you like crazy, even when you _make_ me crazy."

"I love you like crazy, too."

As they kiss, I look out at the lights, the streets, the snow. And my warmth has nothing to do with my hot chocolate or my new gloves or the car's heat.

* * *

By Christmas Eve, the blues that I'd been feeling in the wake of my departmental dinner and the cessation of Secret Santa gifts and the clusterfuck with Emmett and perhaps-related-or-perhaps-coincidental clusterfuck with Edward…they've all faded and been replaced with a certain serenity. I have a good life here. I have good friends. And if I'm lucky enough to count Edward among them, going forward, I'll take it. And, if my thoughts frequently turn wistful and melancholy and yearning, I tell myself that this, too, shall pass.

As I'm peeling carrots and parsnips to put in the fridge in preparation for tomorrow, my phone rings. When I look at the screen, I'm surprised to see Edward's name.

"Hello?"

"Bella?" There's a sense of urgency in his voice that I can't say I've heard before, and it makes me immediately anxious.

"Yeah?"

"Bella, I'm so sorry to bother you on Christmas Eve. I…need your help."

"Okay."

He launches into what I can only assume is the short version of a longer story: Jake ran away. Jake called the House for help. God only knows what happened between Scene I and Scene II. "I'm out in the 'burbs, with Carlisle and Esme. Paul is away with his family, and Sam is at the house with the rest of the guys. I can't leave them there unsupervised, and it'll take me almost an hour at best to get to him. Do you think – would it be possible—"

"Of course," I say, abandoning a row of carrots and a mountain of peelings on the counter and stepping into my boots. "Just tell me where he is."

I jot down Edward's directions and assure him that I'll find him. "Should I have him call you?"

"Actually…" Edward hesitates. "I don't…I'm not sure what happened. Why he left. Sam said something, but…" He trails off. "Could you…do you think you could bring him here? I want to talk to him. I don't want to send him back to the House when I'm not going to be back until tomorrow."

"Oh. Okay. Sure. Just…text me your address."

"Okay. Jesus, Bella, I'm so sorry about this."

"It's fine. Really." And it is. Despite the panic I feel on Jake's behalf, despite the sadness, I'm glad he called me. Those boys, that house…they matter to me in a way I've only suspected until now. I'd have been upset if he hadn't called me. "I'll get him, Edward."

"Thank you," he says, and the depth of the gratitude in his voice is nothing compared with his heartfelt if formal thank you for all my hard work. And here it is, again, the glimpse of what drives him: that panic. That fear. That…understanding, of the hopelessness and the solitude and the helplessness.

The streets are dark and slushy, the traffic characteristically heavy of the last shopping day before Christmas. I follow Edward's loose directions of where Jake said he would be, and when I spot him, standing hunched against a shuttered storefront, posture curled in defeat and head hanging in shame, my shoulders sag with relief. I pull up to the curb and leave the engine running. The cold is penetrating as I step out of the car, and I shiver in my inadequate sweater. My face stings in the biting wind, eyes watering. Glancing both ways, I cross the street. "Jake?"

He glances up, but the smiling boy from the House is gone. In his place is this sad, lost, lonely boy. He says nothing, dipping his head again.

I draw to a halt beside him. "Are you okay?"

He nods but doesn't say anything. He's shivering and his ears are pink with cold and when I hear him sniff, I can't tell if he's upset or if his nose is just running in the cold. As I gaze at him – a boy large enough to be a man but still so much a boy – my heart trips. He looks like exactly what he is: a homeless kid. "Come on," I murmur. "Car's running."

In the quiet dark, Jake keeps his face turned to the window. I sit in silence, entirely uncertain as to what to say, if anything. It occurs to me, perhaps for the first time, the true depth of what Edward does. What he deals with. I'm struck with an even deeper respect for him than I thought possible.

"My mom loved Christmas," Jake says finally, face still turned away. I say nothing in response beyond a small hum to show I'm listening. "Like, really loved it. She dressed up our house so much that my dad used to trip over things – nutcrackers, small Christmas trees, wrapping paper rolls – but he always laughed because he said he knew when he married her that for the whole month of December, she went a little bonkers." He goes quiet for so long that I think he's done until he says, in a voice so small it hurts my heart, "I just…really miss her."

He looks at me as if asking me for an answer I don't have, so I say simply, "My dad loved Christmas, too. He was a cop, so touchy-feely wasn't really his thing, but Christmas…he loved it. He died when I was about your age. The first year, I barely made it through the holiday in one piece. It gets a little easier every year, but it still hurts."

"Yeah," he says by way of a reply, and we lapse into a brief silence before he asks softly, "Is he really mad?"

"I don't think so. He was worried, though." It occurs to me that I've never really seen Edward _mad_ , and that it's another thing that makes him the ideal role model for these kids: steady, steadfast, constant.

As I follow the directions the lady in my GPS is offering and find my car pulling into a sprawling neighborhood with enormous yards and equally impressive houses, familiarity begins to settle softly on my shoulders like snowflakes. I remember this neighborhood. The catalog-worthy holiday lights, the perfect houses, the cars that make mine look like a Radio Flyer wagon with a motor. As we make our way along the winding road, my suspicion grows until the GPS announces that we've reached our destination, and the breathtakingly beautiful house from my drive with Edward is sitting before me in all its glorious splendor.

"Well, I'll be damned," I mutter, gazing up at the house's façade with new eyes. This is _Edward's_ house. Well, the house he finished growing up in, anyway. I try to imagine what that must have been like, to be pulled in from the cold by a warm pair of arms and enveloped into a home like _this_. He must have thought he was dreaming.

I wonder, some days, if he still thinks so.

Unlike last time, when we sat idling in the driveway, gazing at the house's holiday dressing, I kill the engine and glance over at Jake, whose expression mirrors my own.

"Damn," he says softly, gazing up at the house. " _This_ is Edward's house?"

"His parents' house, I guess," I say, equally as surprised.

Jake shakes his head, and we both exit the car, hugging our coats tightly to our bodies. We climb the carefully shoveled and rock-salted front steps and press the illuminated doorbell, hearing its muffled chime through the heavy door before us. It opens almost immediately, Edward's eyes jumping from my face to Jake's before he steps back and ushers us in from the cold.

When we step into the foyer – because this house has an honest-to-God _foyer_ – the smell that greets us can only be described as "Christmas." It's the savory – turkey and stuffing and gravy – and the sweet – cinnamon and sugar and pie – and the faint trace of pine from what I suspect is a live garland snaking its way down the banister.

Edward glances at me and gives me a nod before focusing on Jake. "Hey, man. Everything okay?"

Jacob's gaze drops to the wet toes of his sneakers; he can't bring himself to meet Edward's eye. "I'm really sorry, Edward. I know it was a stupid thing to do. I just…" He trails off, either unable or unwilling to spell it out.

Edward sighs. "It's okay." He rubs a hand over the beard obscuring his jaw. "It's okay. Just…not again, okay? Everybody gets a screw-up. But…you put yourself in a dangerous situation, and as a result, Bella put _herself_ in a dangerous situation." At that, Jake looks up, first at Edward, then at me. Edward visibly softens. "That's kind of how it works, when people look out for each other." And the unsaid is clear beneath the words. _I get that this is new for you – once upon a time, it was new for me, too._ As if the unspoken allusion was enough to conjure her, Esme Cullen appears behind Edward.

"Perfect timing!" she says, hands clasped together in front of her. "I just took the turkey out of the oven. I'm so glad you were able to join us." She says this as if we're invited dinner guests, and not some runaway kid and the loser former intern who had nothing better to do on Christmas Eve than to go fish him out of the snare nets of southside Chicago.

Edward clears his throat. "Jake, Bella, this is my…mother, Esme." He gestures toward each of us in turn. "Bella. Jake." But I'm watching Esme, who's staring at Edward, her face an utterly indescribable maelstrom of emotion: surprise and love and relief and the kind of joy that is so big, so palpable, so consuming that it makes you feel like you could just explode from the inside merely from watching it. Her small hand reaches out and brushes his forearm, and he looks down at her, a similarly swirling snowstorm of feeling on his own face. And I see it all in there – the uncertainty, the embarrassment, the vulnerability – but coloring it all is the soft, warm glow of love.

This is what Edward looks like when he lets someone see his love. And the last part of my heart that I thought I'd managed to keep from belonging to him is gone, sailing toward him on an angel's white wings.

Esme swallows, blinking quickly as she squeezes Edward's forearm once before letting go, giving him his space back, and he clears his throat again, glancing at me with something indecipherable in his eyes. I know already that no matter what's sitting beneath the Cullen family Christmas tree wrapped in festive paper, Edward has just given Esme Cullen the best Christmas present she could have possibly wished for.

"Let me take your coats." Obediently, I shrug out of my pea coat; Jake does the same, and we follow Edward and Esme into the dining room. Cranberry-colored taper candles glow amid what can only be referred to as a feast: mashed potatoes, carrots and parsnips, Brussels sprouts, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and green peas are arranged around the table in matching china bowls that feature tiny holly sprigs around the edges. Matching silver gravy boats sit beside either candle. In the center of the table is an enormous turkey, glistening in the candlelight, and each place is set with gleaming flatware, shining silverware, and crystal stemware. In the center of each plate, collared by brass angel-shaped napkin rings, are linen napkins the same shade of red as the taper candles.

"Wow," I say, halting in the doorway. "This looks amazing." Despite the fact that my mouth started to water the minute I walked into the room, I feel an embarrassed bubble of anxiety rise in my chest. "I'm so sorry we're crashing your family dinner."

Esme shakes her head, the evidence of her moment with Edward still coloring her eyes and cheeks bright. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. It's Christmas – the more, the merrier! Please, everybody sit. Bella, can I get you some wine?"

"Oh, no, just water's fine for me. Thank you."

Jake is still shuffling his feet on the threshold to the room, and just as I'm opening my mouth to urge him inside, Esme steps forward. And through her eyes, for a quick, fleeting moment, I see Edward in his place: a quiet, lost boy with wet sneakers and a coat too thin for the Chicago cold.

"I hope you like turkey," Esme is saying as she places a gentle hand between his shoulders, guiding him into the warm room. "I always cook too much food; my husband is always teasing me."

As if she's conjured him, the man materializes in the doorway. And if there were a single word to describe him, it'd be soft: his ash-gray cashmere-looking sweater, his blond hair, his blue eyes, his smile. He's the kind of man I'd immediately want to recruit as a foster parent just on appearance: he has that artful blend of regal and gentle.

"Jake," he says, crossing the room. "I'm Carlisle Cullen. I'm so glad you could join us." He extends his hand, and Jake looks up, into his face.

It's a picture, what's unfolding in front of me: a kid with nothing and a man with everything. Exactly the kind of man who could easily have dismissed Jake – and Edward – as nothing, but who instead shows them the same respect he'd show the mayor himself.

"Thank you for having me," Jake says, accepting the handshake. When his shoulders straighten infinitesimally, a soft surge of pride and relief makes my own shoulders drop.

"Edward tells me you know a lot about cars," Carlisle says, pulling his chair out from beneath the dining table and gesturing for everyone else to do the same.

"I, uh." Jake glances toward me and I nod. "Yeah. I mean, yes."

Carlisle nods. "I have an old Shelby in the garage that I can't make sense of. Maybe you wouldn't mind taking a look at it with me after dinner?"

"Really?"

Carlisle lowers himself into his chair. "I bought it on a whim—" Here, Esme snorts rather inelegantly as she scoots her own chair in and reaches for the bowl of peas "—and as much as I'd love to get it to the point where I can drive it, I haven't the foggiest idea how to do that. I really don't know how badly off it is, to be honest."

"Sure," Jake says, nodding as he places the deep red linen napkin in his lap. "I'd be happy to."

Carlisle nods, reaching for his wine glass. "Excellent."

When I glance at Edward, he's watching this exchange with that same indecipherable look on his face, and I wonder what's going through his mind – if he's seeing Jake, or if he's seeing another boy from years ago. The desire to reach across the distance between us and squeeze his hand is so great that I make myself reach for my own linen napkin to quell it.

* * *

After dinner, when Carlisle and Jake have retreated to the garage and Edward, Esme, and I have cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, and packaged up leftovers, Edward and I find ourselves in the living room while Esme sits in the kitchen, chatting on the phone with her sister. He's halfheartedly flipping channels with the TV remote as I glance around the impeccably decorated room, eyeing the photos in silver frames and watching the fire crackle in the hearth. Occasionally, I glance at Edward, trying to remind myself that I've decided I'm okay with loving him, okay with being his friend, okay with things as they are, despite how badly I want to slide along the couch and nestle myself beneath his arm. His watch glints in the light from the fireplace, and warmth spreads through my chest. I watch as he channel surfs, bypassing _The Grinch_ and _Home Alone_ and _The Santa Clause._

"Stop!" I nearly yelp as Hugh Grant's face flashes across the screen.

"What?"

"This one!" I confiscate the remote and shove it between my hip and the sofa armrest. "I _love_ this movie."

"What is it?"

I stare at him through wide eyes. _"Love Actually_? You've seriously never seen this?"

He shrugs. "I don't really watch many movies. Especially holiday movies. They're too cheesy."

I roll my eyes. "Cheese schmeese. This movie would be fantastic even if it _weren't_ a Christmas movie. It has the best declaration of love scene in a movie, like, _ever_." I pause. "Maybe we should change the channel. You really should watch it from the beginning."

"Bella, the likelihood of me doing that is slim to none. Just leave it on. It's fine. You can catch me up. Besides, I have to see this 'best scene ever.'"

"Okay." I glance at the screen and give him a quick rundown of what's happened until now. We watch in companionable silence for a while, me clarifying the occasional detail and Edward, likely to his chagrin, getting quickly engrossed. When Mark appears at Juliet's door with a tape deck and an armful of poster board, I watch with held breath, glancing at Edward once to see him equally rapt.

When the credits finally roll, he's frowning.

"Wait…they don't end up together? Keira Knightley and that dude?"

"No."

"So…it's the best declarative scene ever, but in the end, it doesn't work?"

I frown. "Well, it's not about…getting the girl. I mean, she's married to his best friend. He's not trying to get her to leave her husband. He just…needs her to know."

"Know what?"

"How much he loves her. He knows he doesn't have a shot. He knows she'll never be with him. But he just…he wants her to know that he loves her that much."

"Hmph." He leans back against the sofa, a frown on his face. I watch him for a moment, the way the firelight dances across his skin, the way his chest rises and falls beneath his soft-looking shirt, the way his long legs prop up on the edge of the coffee table.

 _Don't be a coward_ , I tell myself, even as, at the last minute, I drop my gaze to finger the seam of the couch cushion instead of looking into his eyes.

"Wouldn't you want to know? If someone…loved you like that?"

He's quiet for long enough to force me to look up. When I do, he's watching the still-rolling credits. "Even if there was nothing I could do about it?"

"Yes."

"And even if it was…inappropriate?"

I swallow and nod. He's quiet for a while, the low sound of the television and the sporadic crackle and pop from the fireplace the only sounds in the room. Finally, he shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice is soft, but sure. "No. No, I wouldn't want to know."

I return my gaze to the TV, but my interest in watching it has vanished. "I would," I whisper softly, fighting the absurd threat of tears. "I would want to know."

The silence between us is suddenly stifling, and I'm grateful beyond belief when Esme appears in the doorway.

"Edward, it's really coming down out there, and it's sloppy. I think Bella should stay." I launch myself off the sofa as if my ass has been ignited by a wayward ember from the fireplace.

"Oh! No. No, it's fine. I have snow tires. I'll be fine."

Carlisle's shaking his head from over Esme's shoulder. "I really don't think it's safe to be driving in this, Bella. There could be ice; the temperature's dropped twenty degrees in the past hour. I think we'd all feel much better if you stayed."

"We have plenty of room," Esme says. "The guest beds are all made up. Please."

"Stay, Bella," Edward says softly. Then he ruins it by adding, "your car really sucks."

I roll my eyes just as Esme says, "Edward, don't say 'sucks'," and Jake laughs. I glance around me – at Edward's teasing but affectionate face, Esme and Carlisle's matching expressions of concern, and Jake's face, smiling and relaxed in a way I've rarely seen on him, and once again I'm struck by all the different ways a family can come to be.

"Okay," I say, wanting to be part of it, even for a night and however tangentially.

"Oh, good."

Esme bustles about, showing me a guest room before disappearing to bring me a pair of flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt to sleep in as well as a new toothbrush, while Carlisle procures the same necessities for Jake, who is now standing beside Edward, the two speaking in low tones. When Esme and Carlisle reappear and offer to show Jake his room, I don't miss the faint trace of something in Esme's eyes: hope, maternal affection, purpose. A quick glance at Edward, and I see him see it, too. He gives me a small smile as the trio leaves the room.

"Thank you for getting him," he says, voice soft.

"Thank you for asking me to."

He glances at the doorway through which his parents disappeared with their newest charge. "He's a good kid."

"Yeah."

"I hope…" But he doesn't say anything else, and I wonder if we're alike in this, too: the fear that our hopes are too big to be put to voice. That some things are better left unsaid in that tiny little corner of the heart reserved for the biggest wishes.

"Mistletoe!" Esme trills suddenly, from where she's reappeared in the kitchen doorway, and as Edward turns to face her, I glance upward to spot a little sprig above where we're standing. Esme looks delighted and faintly mischievous, glancing between Edward and me. "I put it there to catch Carlisle unaware," she explains to me as if in confidence, beaming. "Never thought I'd get to catch anyone else!" When neither of us says anything, she turns and flicks off the kitchen light. "Goodnight, kids."

In the dark quiet, Edward looks down at me, his eyes a deep, immeasurable green. The green of Christmas trees and holly and…mistletoe. I'm gazing back up at him, the silent plea running through me so fervently that it's a wonder he can't hear it. _Please. Kiss me. Pleasepleaseplease._

But I know before he steps away that he's not going to. At the last minute, he leans in, smelling like cinnamon and pie and woodsmoke, and presses his lips softly to my cheek. His beard rasps against my skin, his hand briefly cupping my shoulder, before he pulls away. I close my eyes, trying desperately not to cry.

"Merry Christmas, Bella." His voice is low and rough, and I nod, not trusting my own. I watch as he makes his way up the stairs and disappears into the darkness. I stand there for a few moments longer, wishing with everything in me that I could just walk out the front door and get into my car and drive myself home and cry in private, sobbing into that plaid blanket and listening to the most melancholy of the holiday songs.

 _I wish I had a river I could skate away on._

Blowing out a steadying breath, I climb the stairs and slip into the room Esme has offered me for the night. Through the open curtain, I can see that the snowfall has eased somewhat, and moonlight peeks through the dark clouds, their outlines silhouetted silver. Every snowflake catches the glint of a moonbeam as it swirls toward the ground, and the night sky looks like a shower of falling stars. I think about wishes, about miracles, but I can't bring myself to hope for either. Turning away, I slip into the enormous bed, shivering slightly as I wait for my body heat to warm the flannel sheets.

I try to muster up the courage to look forward to Christmas, try to remind myself of what I decided only hours ago - to be thankful - but for the first time in my life, I can't find even the smallest glimmer of hope.

For the first time since I lost Charlie, I can't find it in me to believe in the possibility of a miracle.

* * *

 _Everybody has someone to hold,  
Nestle by the fire in from the cold.  
But I don't hear the carols they are singing,  
And I've only got one thing good for giving._

So take my heart this Christmas  
And wrap it in a ribbon and a bow.

 _(Lenka, "All My Bells are Ringing")_

* * *

 **A/N: Posting two back-to-back, since the last two days were CHAOS and I couldn't post at all. I hope the joy of the season found each and every last one of you. xo**


	11. December 25: Christmas Day

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

* * *

 **A/N: I am posting chapters 10 and 11 at the same time, so if you're opening this one first, please make sure you didn't miss chapter 10. Happy Boxing Day. xo  
**

* * *

 **December 25**

 **(Christmas Day)**

"Sneaking out so early?"

I gasp, spinning to find Edward standing on the bottom step in the foyer, his hair in disarray. He's wearing green plaid pajama pants and a gray waffle-weave thermal shirt, and the love for him that once made me feel giddy with anticipation is now a lead weight of sadness in my chest. He's the wish that will never come true, and I don't know if it's Christmas or if it's just exhaustion, but in this moment, it's one of the saddest realizations I've ever had. He's watching me warily, his green eyes nearly a perfect match for the garland around the banister and the soft-looking pants he's wearing, and once again, it's a look I can't decipher.

"Yeah. I have a giant ham to get in the oven, so…"

He nods. "Right. Of course."

"Please thank your parents for letting me stay."

Edward takes a step off the lowest stair, his socked feet landing on the stone floor. "Bella—"

"And for dinner," I add, slipping my hands into my gloves.

"Wait," he says, and his voice is just anxious enough to slow my flight. I pause, one gloved hand on the gleaming brass doorknob. When I meet his eye, he reaches up to scratch his jaw. "I don't…I'm not sure when I'll see you again."

And oh, it hurts. "Oh. Right. Yeah, maybe not…for a while." But even that's optimistic.

"I wish…" Both of his arms come up, and his hands clasp the back of his neck. In my peripheral vision, I see the hem of his shirt lift; it takes everything in me not to look at that flash of skin, that tiny peek of what I'll never have. His jaw clenches, and his forehead creases, and he seems to be battling with whatever it is that sits on his tongue, waiting to be freed.

"You wish what?" I ask, the tiniest flicker of hope igniting. I know now that I won't get what I was wishing for. I've seen the Christmas tree, and there's no box the right shape to hold what I wanted more than anything. But still. I could still get _something_.

He shakes his head, arms falling to his sides as he takes another step forward. He's silent for so long that I don't think he's going to say anything until he reaches out and settles a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently before letting it slide down my arm to my elbow, where he pauses before moving even lower and grasping my wrist gently in the circle of his hand. His warm fingers find the tiny gap between the cuff of my coat sleeve and the top of my glove, and I can feel the heat of him through the cotton of my shirt. "I wish…I could keep you."

He's so earnest, and suddenly, I see him. The little boy I've heard about but never knew, the teenager who wanted things he couldn't have, the lonely kid with no family and no home. They're all there in his eyes.

"I wish you would keep me, too." If he notices the slight change in words, he doesn't acknowledge it; instead, he lets go of my wrist and nods once.

"Merry Christmas, Bella."

"Merry Christmas, Edward." My voice is nothing more than a whisper, the sound of snow falling on bare leaves, and I can feel my nose start to run, my eyes start to water. It has never occurred to me until this moment, how the side effects of sadness are the same as the side effects of cold.

I wait for more, but that's it – there's nothing more to say. Nothing but goodbye.

And by the time I'm in my car, for the first time ever, I'm impervious to the cold. I don't feel the ache in my fingers or the sting in my cheeks. They're all eclipsed by the sharp slice of pain through my chest.

I try not to imagine the tears slipping over my cheeks freezing on their way down, tiny little trails of silver ice slowly making their way toward my heart.

* * *

The spread on Alice's and my dining room table is nothing in comparison with Esme Cullen's, but it's lovely all the same. Ham, scalloped potatoes, carrots. Alice's green bean casserole. Rosalie's garlic-roasted Brussels sprouts. The corn pudding that Emmett confessed he had to call his mom in Oregon to help him make. The bread rolls that Jasper cheerfully admitted he picked up at the grocery store on his way over.

The table is covered in a deep green tablecloth, and the tabletop itself looks festive, despite its somewhat mismatched china and completely mismatched chairs – and one stool – clustered around it. Alice is wearing a red sparkly headband with a crooked, glittery Santa hat attached to it and is carefully setting all the serving plates on the table while Jasper refills drinks and I try to get the wireless speaker to cooperate with the iPod that holds my Christmas playlist.

Once we're all seated, I gesture to the food. "Okay, folks. Dig in."

"Wait!" Alice exclaims as she lifts her wine glass toward the ceiling, ever the master of occasion. "A toast!" I smile, following her lead and raising my glass. "To Bella, for this kickass dinner. To Jasper, for his kickass ass. To Rosalie, for making my best friend such a great job offer that I'm not going to lose her to _Boston_." As if offended by the very though, her nose wrinkles in distaste. "And to Emmett, who is my second-favorite male on the planet."

"Hear, hear," Jasper says, hoisting his glass toward the ceiling before bringing it to his lips.

My heart warms with affection as I look around at my family, the family I've made, and I realize the truth of it: I may not have gotten my Christmas wish, but I sure as hell got a miracle. Not everyone is lucky enough to find a family when her own falls apart, but I have. My mind floats to Edward's boys – Riley and Mike and Jake and Seth and all of the others who have come and gone in the short time I was there and even before – and I hope they learn the same thing: that in life, despite the family we're born into, we get to build our own clans, if we're brave enough to seek them out.

I let myself think of Charlie just for a second, just long enough to love him before it's eclipsed by missing him.

"Bell?" Alice is studying me, and it isn't until she says my name that I realize I haven't taken a sip.

"Sorry. Sorry, I just…wanted to thank you guys. For coming. This is…really great. It's the best Christmas I've had in years."

"And you haven't even had my corn pudding yet," Emmett jokes, and I toss him a grateful glance. He knows enough about Charlie and Christmas and my mom to recognize the weight of the truth I've just alluded to. To understand the words I didn't say. He squeezes my knee beneath the table, but his hand vanishes quickly, no weight or meaning or anything suggestive beyond the gesture of quiet support.

"Well, scoop me some, then," I say, taking a small sip from my glass before returning it to the table. And with that, dinner commences, plates being passed and scoops of food being served. Compliments float up with the aroma of the food, and I let myself relax into the simple joy of being. I watch Rosalie ease into the company of my friends, and I wonder for a moment if it's always the lost people who find other lost people. Then I remember Esme and Carlisle, a couple who had so much, bringing home a lost boy all those years ago, and it occurs to me that there must be a thousand different ways to feel lost. To feel wanting. My mind catches and lingers on the thought of Edward, but I push it away, determined not to let it dampen this moment, so warm with candlelight and firelight and friendship.

I watch Jasper steal a bite of ham off Alice's plate – "What are you _doing_ , there's an entire platter _right there_ " – and then shrug and chuckle, clearly motivated by nothing more than getting a rise out of her. I watch Emmett and Rosalie making polite conversation, noticing the way Rosalie's watchful gaze darts to his face every so often, so quickly and fleetingly that I wouldn't have noticed had I not been watching, and Emmett's slight blush when she effusively compliments the corn pudding. The thin thread of possibility stretches between them like a single strand of tinsel, glittering with potential in the candlelight and the soft silver glow of the season, but I look away, granting them the privacy of the moment. I feel oddly warmed by the thought, that perhaps Emmett and I had a purpose beyond us – that despite the times I tried to talk myself into loving him, maybe I wasn't meant to, after all. Maybe I was meant to bring him here to this day, this moment, this girl.

Or maybe not, and it'll be one more flicker of possibility that never comes to flame.

Telling myself to stop analyzing and just live it, I work my way back into the conversation, back into the moment.

By the time plates are mostly empty, dotted only with random scraps of evidence of the feast, everyone leaning back in their chairs as if to give their full stomachs room to expand, the conversation is flowing as if we've all been friends – family – for years. Any aloofness Rosalie may have held upon her arrival has been melted by the warmth of the room – its people, its food, its flames – and she and Alice are laughing at Jasper's expense. He shrugs, ever good-natured, and Emmett's smile is indulgent and teasing, the consummate big brother. Quietly, I rise to clear some plates to make room for dessert, and Emmett follows me.

"Let me help," he murmurs, and despite my protest, he's stacking empty dishes in his hands and grabbing platters half-full of leftovers. He follows me into the kitchen, placing the stack of china gently on the countertop next to the sink.

"Thanks," I say, grabbing a potholder from beside the stove to open the over door, pulling out the apple pie I'd put inside to keep it warm. Setting it on the cooling rack, I turn to find Emmett standing directly before me, eyes watching me carefully. My first instinct is to step back, but with the oven behind me, there's nowhere to go.

But the look in his eyes isn't suggestive or confrontational or anything more than curious. His hands are in his pockets, the sleeves of his brown sweater pushed partway up his forearms.

"I, um. This is. Okay." He blows out a breath. "We're never going to happen, right?"

I feel mildly guilty for the wave of relief that washes over me at the realization that he hasn't cornered me in the kitchen to try to kiss me again. "No," I admit, realizing that I still have an oven mitt on one hand. I should take it off, but it's warm, and I toy with the edge of it instead. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "I kind of knew. I just…I really liked you, is all." It's in the past tense, and my relief grows.

"I know. I really liked you too." And I did. I liked Emmett a lot. He's kind and sweet and honest and trustworthy and a million other things that I love in people.

"I know it sounds like a cheap cliché, but I'd really like to be friends, still. To stay friends."

"I would, too," I say quickly, fiercely. I'm going to need all the friends I can get, after all, in this new makeshift family of mine. "I really would, Em."

He cocks his head to one side, the gesture so eerily reminiscent of another man that it hits me like a punch. "That's all we ever were, isn't it?" He could so easily be angry here, but he isn't. He's just…matter-of-fact.

"Yeah, I guess so. I'm sorry." I wonder, not for the first time, if I'd have been able to fall in love with him had it not been for Edward.

"Don't be. I'm honored to be your friend." He pops his knuckles. "I guess…I had sort of hoped it would grow into more. We…made sense."

And there it is. The evidence that he felt it, too. We _should_ have fallen in love. We were perfect for each other in a lot of ways. My relief grows, filling some of the space freed up in my heart by my receding guilt. "Yeah, we did."

He considers me for a minute before his small smile takes a decidedly roguish tilt. "So…we're friends?"

"Absolutely."

"Great. In that case…your social services friend is hot."

I laugh, relief and affection and happiness making something in my chest feel lighter. "Yes, she is."

He's still grinning, but it softens at the edges. "Thanks for having me for dinner."

"Of course, Emmett." And then I lay down my cards. "Thanks for the gifts. I'm sorry you went to all that trouble."

A small crease appears between his eyebrows, and his smile dims in confusion. "Gifts?"

"The…mittens and the chocolates and the tickets and everything."

His frown deepens. "Bells, I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

For the first time since this conversation started, I feel like I'm blindly stumbling through a whiteout snowstorm. "All the…presents. The Twelve Days of Christmas presents. On my doorstep."

Emmett just shakes his head. "Nope. Sorry."

"It wasn't you?"

Another head-shake. "Wasn't me."

My head is spinning, and I'm opening my mouth to ask him another question I haven't quite determined yet when Alice's head appears around the kitchen doorjamb. "Pie?" It's a cover: she's checking on me, giving me an out if I need one, interrupting in case Emmett is campaigning again. I give her a small head-shake, assurance that everything's fine.

"Pie," I say around the knot in my throat. "Right."

"Can I help?" she asks, stepping all of the way into the kitchen. Emmett takes advantage of the reprieve and disappears back into the living room. Alice's voice dips. "Everything okay?"

"It wasn't him," I say, my mind still racing.

"What wasn't him?"

"The gifts. They weren't from Emmett."

She looks as confused as I feel. "Then who…"

I don't know. I refuse to let my heart hope again, but I honestly don't know what else to think. A guy from my program? But I'm not that close to any of them; certainly not close enough for anyone to know that I needed new gloves or how much I loved coconut-filled chocolates. "I don't know," I say aloud, just as Rosalie appears in the doorway.

"Can I help?"

"Sure," I say, handing her dessert plates as Alice retreats to the fridge, grabbing ice cream and whipped cream, even as her eyes stay trained on my face. I give her a single head-shake, determined to focus on the matter at hand instead of getting lost, once again, in obsessing about Edward. Still, the tiny hope that I thought I'd surrendered, if not entirely gracefully, has burst back to fullness.

We resettle at the table, enjoying dessert and more drinks, then coffee, and it isn't until Rosalie glances at her watch and exclaims in surprise that we realize the late hour. With the explanation that she has to work the following day, followed by a joking suggestion that I escape while I still can, she slips into her coat. Alice, Jasper, and I pretend to be otherwise engaged in conversation as Emmett offers to walk her out, and we force ourselves not to act surprised when he decides to leave shortly thereafter.

"Ugh," Alice says, eyeing the table, which still holds the debris of dessert. "I don't have the energy for that tonight."

"It'll still be there in the morning," I agree, swiping my wine glass and following Alice and Jasper to the living room. We collapse onto the furniture and Jasper grabs the remote as Alice and I dissect the evening.

"I really like Rosalie," she says, taking a sip from her own wine glass. "And it has almost nothing to do with the fact that she offered you a job."

"I really like her too," I say, lazily spinning my own glass and watching as the light from the fireplace and the Christmas tree catch and shimmer in its facets.

"Emmett sure seemed to like her," Jasper says, the consummate little brother, but he glances at me to make sure there's no negative reaction on my part.

"I thought so, too," I tell him, grinning. "I think a woman who could serve him his balls on a platter would be a really good thing for your brother."

"Couldn't agree more," he replies, smiling wryly as he finds a football game, which Alice and I immediately protest.

Finally, when he lands on _It's a Wonderful Life_ , we fade into relative silence as the final hours of Christmas wind down. Just as little Zuzu is explaining how angels get their wings, there's a knock on the door, and my heart starts to pound, a one-two beat. An echo of a two-syllable name I refuse to lend concrete thought to, but my body betrays me with that one-two rhythm.

"I'll get it," Alice says drowsily, beginning to untangle herself from the knot she and Jasper make on the sofa, but I rise from the loveseat, unencumbered.

"It's okay, I got it. Stay there."

When I open my front door, there, standing on my porch in a dove-gray suit with his shoulders hunched in deference to the cold, is Edward. Pinned to the lapel of his suit coat where a flower should be is a red gift bow. As the door swings open, he looks up, his eyes the deep green of pine.

"Hi," he says, a million insecurities in one little word. My eyes dance between the deep green of his eyes and the glittering red of that gift bow. The same red gift bow that was on a box of chocolates and a pair of ballet tickets and a drum of popcorn and a pair of gloves.

"The partridge in the pear tree," I breathe, hugging my fisherman's sweater tighter around my body as I feel waves of heat slipping past me and out into the frigid winter night. He's still watching me carefully, his breath puffing out in visible clouds, and the tips of his ears and nose are pink from the cold. "It was you," I say, more for verbal confirmation than anything else. I thought I'd known, I'd hoped, I'd doubted, and here, at the end of it all, here he is. Here we are.

He nods, and I wait him out; finally, he speaks. "It was me." A small frown tugs his brows together. "It _is_ me." His lips purse slightly and I know as I watch his lovely face that he's chewing on the soft flesh inside his cheek. "The partridge." He pauses. "A bum gift?"

I remember his characterization of the gifts in the song and I shake my head.

"Definitely not."

He shifts his weight, dress shoes scuffing on the cold concrete of my porch stoop. "You know, the guy in that song really had what I think was a borderline unhealthy fascination with birds. By the end of it, that poor woman would have had twenty-three different fowl in her home." I realize, as he babbles, that he's nervous. He's the little boy with a poorly-wrapped present in his hands, hoping that whomever he's giving it to can look past its imperfections to see the beauty of what's inside. And at the same moment, conversely, he's the man dressing up the outside in hopes that it will hide the parts inside that he worries might not be good enough.

The faint sparkles in the bow fixed to his lapel shimmer in the yellow glow from my porch light, and I love him so desperately I feel like my insides are melting despite the frigid cold. "I hope she had the number for animal control."

He gazes at me for a minute before reaching into the inside pocket of his coat and pulling out a small red envelope, my name penned on the front in gold calligraphy. "What's this?" I ask, running a finger over the shimmery ink.

"It's…your Christmas card."

When I slip my finger beneath the flap of the envelope and pull out the small piece of cream-colored cardstock, the line of words printed in bold black ink in Edward's familiar, hasty scrawl makes my breath catch in my throat.

 _Because it's Christmas (and at Christmas you tell the truth), to me, you are perfect._

I look up, and the beautiful man standing on my porch is blurry through my tears. "You owe me a pear tree."

His shoulders relax, and the too-rare grin I adore spreads across his face. "I'll plant you an orchard of pear trees."

I step across my threshold, out into the cold winter air that, for once, I don't even feel. "You…stopped. After nine."

"Eight," he corrects, and I wish I could tell if the flush in his cheeks was from the cold.

"Eight?"

"The hot chocolate. Milk." His lips quirk. "For the maids."

And there it is. Confirmation. The cup that matched the wrapping paper. But still. After that: nothing. "The hot chocolate," I echo. "But then…?"

His eyes bore into mine. "I thought…I was overstepping. At the dinner, with Emmett…I thought you and he were…something. And I felt like maybe it was wrong. To be your boss and want that." He pauses, then adds softly, "To want you."

"It's not," I tell him, terrified by the tiniest possibility that even though he's standing here, on my porch, gift-wrapped and gorgeous, that there might still be a chance I don't get to keep him. "It's not wrong."

He shakes his head slightly. "You deserve the best things in life, Bella."

"That's why I want _you_."

I wonder if it felt the same way for him, when he said it aloud: liberating and terrifying, all at once. Like diving off a cliff with no parachute. When he doesn't answer, I step forward, reaching up to gently, softly, whisper a touch against the smooth skin of his cheek.

"You shaved," I whisper, and he nods.

"I wanted you to be able to see me."

And I do. For perhaps the first time, I see him – _really_ see him. The man he is. The boy he was. The man he wants to be. That special place where the three converge and he's just wholly, wonderfully, imperfectly Edward. "Your cheek is cold."

He grins. "Yeah. There's a reason people don't scale Kilimanjaro in evening wear."

"Sissies."

It's funny – this is what we always do. We banter. We parry. We dance around it. But it's incredible, the difference when neither of us is trying to hide something.

I see it. The love in his eyes. I sort of expected it to change, the way he looked at me. I thought it would be different. It's only now, gazing up at him in beneath a full Christmas moon, in the half-circle of yellow light spilling from my porch lights, that I realize that it's not different. He's been looking at me this way all along. Except this time, he isn't looking away.

The thought is blasted away by the feel of his cold fingertips on my cheek. His eyes are searching, waiting. He's still in there, that careful, reserved, stand-up guy who always tries so hard to do the right thing. But he's here. We're here. He's not my supervisor anymore; I'm not his intern. He's a boy in the snow with a red bow on his lapel asking a question, and I'm a girl standing shoeless on freezing cold concrete, saying yes.

"I meant what I said before, though," he says, uncertainty creeping back into his eyes and voice. "I'm not very good at sharing my life."

"Edward, in case you haven't noticed, you've been sharing your life with me for the past year and a half. The only difference is, now, when you leave Grove at the end of the day, you'll have something warm waiting in bed for you."

At the thought, his eyes darken, and everything tumbles over itself inside me, all of the feeling I have for him: respect, love, friendship, lust, admiration, yearning. The hope I can see in his eyes is new, and I feel a thrill at the thought that I'm responsible for it.

"Waiting in bed, huh?" And nothing, no polar wind, no lake effect snow, no Chicago winter could ever come close to extinguishing the heat that licks through me at the look in his eyes.

"If that's what does it for you," I say, struggling to hang on to the banter we're so good at.

"You're what does it for me, Bella," he murmurs, and my mind flashes to a shopping mall window and red lingerie. I'm going to need to go shopping. Boxing Day gifts are a thing, right?

Slower than the lazy descent of the snowflakes around us, he dips his head. I rise to my toes to meet him, and when his soft, warm lips touch mine, I feel like I'm back inside that snow globe, as if someone's shaking the world, sending snow swirling around us like a chaotic storm even as Edward and I stand steady and surefooted.

As he pulls back and looks down at me, questioning, giving me another chance to back away, to turn him down, I'm overcome with a joy I haven't felt since I was a girl in Forks, dragging a giant Christmas stocking down the stairs and settling beside a tree weighed down with homemade decorations, drinking cocoa in my pajamas beside the first man who never let me down.

The memory of Charlie and Barbie Dream Houses and BMX bikes and red secondhand Volkswagens merges with the scene before me – a bright-eyed, soft-hearted man standing in the snow with his heart in his eyes – and I can't quite believe it, that once again, my Christmas wish came true.

"What changed your mind?"

My own joy is mirrored in his eyes, and this, _this_ is my Christmas gift: the happiness on his face that I've never seen before. The realization that it's possible that the joy he brings me, I give back to him. "You left. This morning. You left, and I had to say goodbye to you. And I realized the minute you drove away in that rickety little car of yours how much I didn't want to. And…" He trails off, then shrugs. "I lied. Last night, when you asked me…I lied. I would want to know. And…you said you would want to know, too. If someone loved you like that. I was being a coward because I thought…we could just be friends, and it would be enough. I just…hadn't really thought about not seeing you every day. Or talking to you every day. And I knew that even if I told you and kissed you and then had to walk away…it would be worth the risk."

And he's so brave. From the little kid whose dad ruined Santa on Christmas Eve night to the teenager who survived on the streets in the cold to the young man who let Esme and Carlisle take him in to the grown man who created a safe place for boys like him to escape the cold streets…and now, here, to the man in front of me with a bow pinned to his lapel and his love plain on his face. He's so…everything.

I slip my hand into his, feeling his cold fingers, his cold palm. I wonder how long he was standing out here before he knocked on my door. How long he was waiting in the cold before working up the courage. "Come on," I say, giving it a squeeze. Offering him my warmth. "Come meet my family."

* * *

 _Who really needs a gift_

 _When love is meant to give_

 _I can still recall, carry with me always,_

 _Every Christmas dream._

 _They live in you and me_

 _Let all your memories_

 _Hold you close_

 _No matter where you are,_

 _You're not alone,_

 _Because the ones you love are never far_

 _If Christmas is in your heart._

 _(Christina Perri, "Something About December")_

* * *

 **A/N: Epilogue to come. Warmest wishes to all of you. xo**


	12. December 31: New Year's Eve

**A Snowfall Kind of Love**

 **Summary:** There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

* * *

 **Epilogue: New Year's Eve**

As it turns out, Boxing Day gifts are not a thing. Plus, the shopping mall was the absolute last place I wanted to be when I had Edward sitting beside me in our small kitchen that morning, his wrinkled dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his hair in wild disarray. There was still a faint line from the couch cushion on his cheek, and brown sugar stubble dotted his newly bare face, and I felt warm and syrupy with love as I watched him chat with Jasper over coffee at the tiny two-seater table in Alice's and my kitchen. We had all fallen asleep in the living room: Alice sprawled across Jasper's lap in the armchair, me nestled into Edward's side on the sofa, the fireplace roaring and _It's a Wonderful Life_ looping on the television. All the lights were off and the room danced in the combined light of fire and screen and Christmas tree twinkle lights, and when I woke at some point in the night to see that Alice and Jasper had vanished into her bedroom, I glanced up to find Edward's head tipped back and resting on the back of the couch. The television was off, the fire had been reduced to embers, and the only real light in the room came from the Christmas tree still glowing in the corner.

Everything in me wanted to wake him and drag him into my bedroom – into my _bed_ – but there was also something so softly lovely about the way he looked with the remnants of Christmas all around him. Instead, I slid down the couch, pulling on him gently. He stirred, briefly disoriented, and for a fleeing second, I panicked that he would wake fully and make an excuse to leave, but he simply let me tug on him until he was lying lengthwise on the sofa with me sandwiched between his body and the back of the couch, that threadbare plaid blanket spread over both of us.

He hummed, content, a sound I'd never heard from him, and I let my head rest on his chest, the soft whisper of his breathing and the steady thump of his heart lulling me back to sleep.

The next morning he left shortly after that rumpled cup of coffee to go back to Grove House, and in the week since, we've been trading quick kisses and fleeting caresses and moments of wonder, when it seems neither of us can quite believe the other is there. The most wonderful thing of all is the fact that nothing has really changed, with the obvious exception of the kissing and the touching and that special sort of giddy euphoria that comes with getting exactly what you want. Until this week, I'd never really seen Edward giggle, and the first time I did, I wanted to catch the moment in a butterfly net and never let it go. He looked so…happy. So uncomplicatedly, simply, completely _happy_. That it mirrored perfectly the way I was feeling was the icing on the already too-delicious-to-be-believed cake. But beyond that, things stayed the same. He still teases me. I still give it right back to him. We still banter and pester and…generally act like _us_. And we still talk. About the House, about our childhoods, about the tough stuff. The nice change there is, now when I get upset, he doesn't hesitate to scoop me up in his arms and hold me, silent and patient, just waiting until the blues pass. There's something so plainly wonderful about that: having someone who knows not to try to fix it, or talk it away, or troubleshoot it, or analyze it, but how to just sit with it and let it be. Similarly, when I see the shadows cross his face, now I don't have to stop myself from wrapping my arms around him and resting my head against his chest, affording him the privacy of not looking at his face, but wrapping him up in my arms and my love and letting him feel that I'm here. That I'll _be_ here. Always.

And, sure, there have been tiny, blink-and-you'd-miss-them road bumps. Already. But I know where they come from. Considering all that he's accomplished, there's still a large part of Edward that's still the kid nobody loved enough. The kid determined to make it on his own. The kid who felt broken by things that weren't his fault, and powerless to slip out from under the weight of them. That kid has grown into a man who doubts what he deserves. He questioned why he was gifted a home with the Cullens. Now, he doubts that he deserves this. With me. Which, I tell him, is asinine, even though I get where it comes from.

But here we are. We've had a week of that euphoric, beginning bliss. Seven days of soft smiles, heart-bursting happiness, faint disbelief.

Which is all a roundabout way of saying that it's New Year's Eve, he's taking the first night off since Christmas, and we're going to a New Year's Eve party at Rosalie's house. And hanging on the back of my bathroom door is the purchase I made at Victoria's Secret three days ago. It's not red, and there's no Santa hat, but I'm hoping he likes it all the same.

I'm standing in front of my closet, gazing at the little black dress I picked out when I went shopping with Alice yesterday. It's all black sparkles that catch the light with every shift of the fabric; it looks like the sea at midnight, beneath a moonlit, star-dappled sky. It's beautiful, and I feel comfortable in it, and yet all I can think about is my other wardrobe for this evening. All I can think about is Edward _seeing_ me in my other wardrobe for this evening, and nerves rise in my chest like champagne bubbles.

"These," Alice says, appearing in my doorway. "I knew I had them somewhere." She holds out a hand, and sitting in her palm much like the Swarovski globes from a week ago – _was it really only a week ago?_ – are a pair of crystal drop earrings shaped like starbursts. Or fireworks.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course." Her eyes shift to the dress. "I would normally give you shit for picking black, but damn, Bella, that's one hell of a dress. I can't wait to see his face when he sees you."

It's the opposite of my dress from the night of the departmental dinner: despite the long sleeves, it's form-fitting, and it stops far higher on my thigh than I'd thought I'd be okay with. Paired with the sparkly pumps with taller heels than are generally advisable for me, I'm pretty sure it's going to look spectacular. Provided that I can avoid slipping on ice and flashing the goods before that we even get to part of the evening, or otherwise humiliating myself.

"Me too," I admit. Because I liked the way Edward looked at me last time I dressed up. And I like the way he's been looking at me over the past week, something heated and hungry behind his normally placid gaze.

"Tonight's the night, right?"

I look back at my friend. "The night?"

She smirks. "Going to ring the new year in with a bang?"

"Alice!"

Her smirk upgrades to a grin. "Thought so. Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't done it already."

"Yeah, well, we've been…busy." The holidays make life at the House a little crazier for Edward, with the guys home all the time and only a skeleton support staff. His opportunities to get away for a few hours have been practically nonexistent. Until tonight.

"I'll be staying at Jasper's, so y'know…don't feel the need to keep it quiet." She's back to smirking, and for a tiny little innocent-looking schoolteacher, Alice has a surprisingly dirty mind. And non-existent filter. "Or…contained. Or anything."

"Alice—"

"Really take him for a spin. See what he can do. I was pretty impressed at the way you tangled yourselves around each other on that couch; he must be pretty flexible."

"Alice!"

She's grinning again. "Come on, Bella. Be excited. It's okay."

"I am excited." I am. Very. But it's also tempered by a healthy dose of terrified. As if I spoke that confession aloud, Alice's smile dims.

"What is it?"

"I just…it's so perfect. Everything's so perfect. Even the imperfections are perfect, because they're him. And us. What if…what if this is the one thing that _isn't_ perfect? What if I screw it up?"

"Bella, men like sex. What's that they say, that it's like pizza: even when it's bad, it's good." But I don't _want_ it to be bad. Off my look, Alice sighs, half-sitting on the edge of my bed. "Remember when we talked about loving him? How it wasn't about the romance stuff, but just about being with him, regardless of what you were doing?"

"Yeah." I sit beside her, still gazing at my dress. It catches the dull lamplight of my room, sparkling despite the dimness. Like wishing stars.

"Goes for the sex, I think, too. Even mediocre sex with somebody you're crazy about is better than great sex with somebody who's just a fuck-buddy."

What I don't tell Alice: I've never had a fuck-buddy. I've never even had sex with someone I wasn't in a relationship with, and the number of men I _have_ had sex with can be tallied on one hand with fingers to spare. And they've all been…good. Never mind-bogglingly awesome, but never bad, either. Just…good. Nice. But I also never loved any of them like I love Edward. "Yeah," I say simply.

"Bella, it's going to be fine. Better than fine. Just…let yourself relax and enjoy it. Try not to put too much pressure on it. It's the quickest way to take yourself out of the moment."

"You're right."

Her face turns faintly wicked again. "Plus, your headboard has posts. If all else fails, tie him to them and take matters into your own hands."

"Alice!" I shriek, even as the very thought – Edward, naked and shackled at the wrists – makes heat flash through me.

She laughs. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it." She stands. "Jasper went out to grab a couple of bottles of champagne. Do you think we should take anything else?"

I shake my head. "Rose said she's set with food and booze."

"Okay." She glances at the small clock on my nightstand. "Edward's coming at eight?"

I nod. "As soon as Sam gets there."

"Okay. I'll get in the shower." She pauses in the doorway. "Let yourself enjoy it, Bella. Don't overthink it. It's sex. And love. They go together."

"Yeah," I say, and the truth of it settles around me like a warm blanket. It's sex. And I love him. I can't imagine it _not_ being good, just because I love him that much. Does the Tab-A-into-Slot-B part of it even matter that much?

Yes. And no.

I shake my head, resolving to stop obsessing. It will be fine. Out of nowhere, the memory of him shaking rock salt over porch steps slides into my mind: the visual of him, silhouetted against the light, capable and manly and strong. I try to imagine him _not_ being just as competent in bed, and find that I can't. A small shiver of anticipatory pleasure slides down my spine, and I rise, making my way toward my dress.

Here we go.

* * *

It's a strange dichotomy that exists on New Year's Eve: nostalgia paired with anticipation. Tonight, I admit, my anticipation is a hundredfold. Not for the new year, not even for tomorrow, but for tonight. For what happens after the ball drops. After the midnight kiss. After the party's over. I can't bring myself to make big plans for 2016 or promises to myself about what I will and won't do; all I can do is picture this evening, that dark blue slip and Edward's dark green eyes when he sees me in it. And out of it.

"Whoa," he says as I open the door. I wonder, as cold air swirls in, if opening the front door to him will ever _not_ be accompanied by memories of that Christmas night, and him dressed up in a soft gray suit with a red gift bow pinned to his lapel. I hope not.

"Hi."

"Hi. I meant to say that first. Hi. But also…" Here, his eyes sweep me from head to toe. "Whoa."

I laugh. "Good-whoa, or 'Whoa, those shoes are a baaaaad idea,' whoa?"

He echoes my laugh. "Definitely the former. Although, now that you mention it, I'll be sure not to let you traverse any sidewalks solo. I honestly don't know how on Earth you girls walk in shoes like that."

"Carefully," I reply, stepping backward to usher him inside. "Alice is still finishing getting dressed."

"That's fine."

"Can I…take your coat?"

"Sure." When he slips free of his thick winter coat, my heart trips in my chest. Because paired with his black slacks and shiny black shoes is a smoke-gray half-zip sweater with black elbow patches. The zipper is only partway zipped, and I can see a white dress shirt and a black tie peeking out beneath his Adam's apple.

"Whoa," I echo.

He grins. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Hell yeah." If I could have dressed him myself, I couldn't have constructed something more perfect. More sexy. More…him.

He fidgets with the knot of his tie. "I…wasn't sure. How dressy. I haven't been to a New Year's party in…well, ever, really."

"Really? Never?"

"I mean…college. But those were really just…booze-fueled hook-up parties. Not…like this." I don't really know what to say to that. As if misinterpreting my silence, he hastens to clarify. "I mean, not me. _I_ wasn't hooking up. I didn't really…that wasn't really…my thing. I just meant…people in general." He looks flustered, and I want to leap in and rescue him from himself almost as much as I want to draw this out, watching the faint stain in his cheeks darken.

"It's okay," I say, and he looks relieved.

"Sorry."

"Hey, New Year's Eve is about the future, right?" He still looks slightly doubtful, and I step closer. "Edward, your past doesn't concern me, except in as much as it made you who you are. It's your future I care about."

He snags my fingers with his. "My future is yours. As long as you want it." _Forever,_ I want to say, but we're only a week in, and that's crazy talk. "I, uh…have something for you." He pulls a little black velvet box from his pants pocket. My eyes widen, but he doesn't notice. "This was…supposed to be seven."

"Seven?"

"The whole…twelve days of Christmas thing. The other five days…well, they were mostly simple stuff. Tokens. But this…this was going to be seven. And I really wanted you to have it." He cracks the lid, and there, gleaming against the black velvet cushion, is a crystal necklace charm. Of a swan. When I don't say anything, he laughs nervously. "Seven swans-a-swimming, right?"

"Edward," I breathe, and he shifts his weight on the carpet.

"You don't have to wear it tonight, obviously. I know you guys pick your outfits out carefully and everything. But I just…wanted you to have it." Another flash of that boy in the snow, his heart in his eyes, and I'm so wholly, completely, foreverly his.

"I'd like to. Wear it tonight."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He grins, handing me the box, and I hand him back his coat as I take it out carefully, opening the clasp of the chain and fastening it around my neck. I don't care if it isn't the type of necklace you wear with this neckline, I don't care if it doesn't totally match my earrings, I don't care about any of it. "I love it," I say, that tiny two-letter word a sorry substitute for the three-letter one I want to put in its place.

He beams. "I'm glad." His eyes drop to the charm, sitting just below the neckline of my sparkly party dress, and they darken. "Is it awfully primitive of me, to like the way you look wearing something of mine?"

"Probably," I admit. "But I'm not at all averse to that type of primitive."

He grins. "Terrific."

Alice chooses that moment to appear, her gold dress shimmering and her honest-to-God tiara-style headband glinting in the soft lamplight. Her own heels make mine look tame, and Jasper hovers nearby, one can only assume to catch her when she inevitably lists to one side. "Hi Edward," Alice chirps, fastening her earring. "Sorry. I'm always the hold-up."

"Not a problem," he says, shaking Jasper's hand. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," my friends echo, and we all don coats before making our way – carefully, because _heels_ – down the sidewalk and across the parking lot to Edward's truck and piling into it like a bunch of circus clowns in overly festive formalwear.

"So," Jasper pipes up from the tiny excuse for a backseat once we're on the main road. "Who's got New Year's resolutions?"

"Ugh," Alice replies. "New Year's resolutions are crap."

"What?"

"People tell themselves they're going to make all these big changes in their lives, all around one arbitrary day on a calendar. The gym is always _packed_ on January 2, and guess how long it takes to become a ghost town again with the same old pack of steady regulars? About a week."

"Wow," I say. "I don't think I've ever seen this side of you, Alice."

Edward is suspiciously quiet, but when I look at him, his lips are pursed, and I can tell he's chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Edward?" I prompt.

"The date is pretty arbitrary," he agrees carefully, flicking a glance at Alice and Jasper in the rearview mirror. "But I think there's value in the attempt at self-improvement, however successful or unsuccessful it may be. The simple act of acknowledging your shortcomings is valuable in itself."

It's in these glimpses of that side of him – counselor-Edward – that I'm reminded of just how much I respect him. Just how much I want to _be_ like that, to be that good at this. I hope I never forget just how much I was amazed by the professional side of him before I fell head over teakettle for the rest of him.

He's quiet again, but I know that look. Leaning over the center console, I murmur, "What's yours?"

His eyes slide to my face, illuminated once again by the dashboard lights, and I will forever love him best like this, bathed in the memory of our slow dance in the snow. "To share my life."

I weave our fingers together and let the city streets slip by, warm in the cocoon of his car and his promise.

* * *

The party is alive when we arrive, drinks flowing and guests wearing sparkly hats and eyeglasses in the shape of the coming year and, in more than one case, headbands with what look like silver pom-pom antennae sticking straight up. On no other holiday do people give themselves over so completely to sparkles, and it occurs to me to wonder whether it's a nod, however unconscious, to the glittering possibilities of a new year. A fresh start. But with Edward's hand warm in mine, I can't help feeling nostalgic for the year that hasn't even ended yet. There's no way the coming year can bring me more than this year already has, no matter what happens tonight, after the clock strikes midnight. Still, the sparkles of my dress blend into the sparkles all around the room, and our little party of four weaves itself into the fabric of the party.

Mere minutes after our entrance, I spot Rosalie and Emmett standing in the far corner of the room, and I pull gently on Edward's hand to lead him in that direction. As we approach, Rose and Emmett both glance our way, spotting our joined hands at the exact same moment. Rose grins and Emmett's eyes widen only enough for me to notice.

"Bella! Edward! I'm so glad you guys came!"

"Thanks for the invitation," I reply, holding aloft the bottle of champagne. "We come bearing bubbles."

"Fantastic. Thank you," she says, accepting the silver-wrapped bottle. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," I say, my eyes shifting to Emmett, who appears to be having a silent conversation with Edward. Almost immediately, he snaps to, extending a hand in Edward's direction.

"Happy New Year."

Edward returns the greeting, and if there's a tiny little thread of awkwardness still lingering, we all seem to agree to ignore it. "Bella, let me get you guys a drink." She links her arm through mine and leads me into her small kitchen, where a makeshift bar is set up along one wall. She sets the bottle of champagne near a row of others and turns to face me, a knowing smile on her painted lips. "Guess he liked the watch."

I grin. "He did indeed."

She's silent for a moment, twisting a ring around her middle finger. "So…you and Emmett. He said you used to—"

"Yeah. We used to. Not for very long."

"Was it…I mean, you guys seem…okay, now." It isn't phrased like a question, but her eyebrows are raised, as if awaiting confirmation.

"We are. As it turns out, we were always better friends, anyway."

"Oh." She doesn't say anything more, but she also doesn't reach for the stack of plastic cups just beside her right elbow.

"Rose?"

"Hm?"

"He never really looked at me like he was just looking at you."

"What?" But she's blushing, and I grin.

"It's totally cool. If you guys are into each other. It's cool with me, if that's what you're trying to get at."

She looks relieved. "Really? I mean, we're going to be working together. And we're friends. And I just…didn't want to start something with that much potential for awkwardness."

"Zero awkwardness," I promise.

"Okay," she says, blowing out a breath so that her pink-blushed cheeks puff out. "Okay then. Thanks, Bella."

"Thank you. For letting me talk out…the whole Edward thing."

She smiles. "Anytime."

The man of the moment appears at my elbow, and Rosalie tips her chin in greeting. "Hey, Edward. Can I get you a drink?"

"Just a Sprite would be good for me," he replies. While Rose busies herself making the drink, I lean into him.

"We can always call a cab."

Another head-shake. "I'm really not a big drinker. That beer at your dinner was the first one I've had in probably two years."

It's amazing, how I can feel like I know so much about him, and then something like this – some tiny, arbitrary detail – can make me feel like he's brand new. "Really?"

He looks at me, face serious for a minute. "My mother was an addict. My father was a drunk. I don't think I have either of those tendencies, but I don't really feel the need to test the theory. And I like…having my wits about me." Suddenly, he looks embarrassed. "I'm sorry. Not to be a buzzkill."

"You're not," I say immediately. "Of course you're not. I just…I like knowing things about you. I'm sort of surprised I didn't know that."

He shifts his feet. "It's not something I broadcast," he says simply, as Rose hands him a cup of soda, bubbles rising just like the champagne that will be flowing later. "What can I get you?" she asks me.

"I'll…have the same," I say, and she nods, turning away again.

"Bella, don't—"

"I'm not," I cut him off. "I just…don't want to miss a thing tonight."

After a searching look, he nods once. "Okay." And I love how he just lets it be. Because sure, it would be fine for both of us to be loose-lipped and lazy-limbed with liquor, not even drunk but just pleasantly buzzed, the world fuzzy and soft at the edges. But this – him, in sharp focus, and the way his touch lifts goose pimples on my skin – it's even better. And later, when the party is a memory and we're alone in the darkness together…I don't want anything about those moments to be blurry. I want them razor-sharp. "We lost your friends," he says, sipping his soda, and I glance around.

"That's okay. Alice is a hummingbird at parties."

At that, he laughs. "Just at parties? Seems to be a pretty apt comparison in general."

I grin. "Yeah. Probably."

"So. What's yours?"

"My what?"

"Resolution." His grin turns faintly saucy. "I showed you mine." I blush, stupidly, and his grin stretches. "I like that."

"What?"

"Your blush. You used to do it…before. But I never knew why."

I look up at him. "You didn't?"

He gazes back down at me, and it's like we're in our own little bubble, the party carrying on around us. "No. I hoped. But then, I tried not to. I thought it was just…you."

"It's you, actually. It's me, around you."

"I like that. That I do that to you."

"I like that you do, too."

He smiles, and I'm just thinking once again how much I like that this part of us hasn't changed when he leans in and says, "I admit, I was sort of sad to see the Michelin Man coat sidelined for the evening."

"Yeah, well, tire company mascot wasn't exactly the look I was going for with this dress."

"Clearly." It's his turn to blush, and I grin.

"Clearly, huh?"

"You're much more…oil slick."

"Oil slick?"

His eyes widen. "Or…car body?"

"Body."

"Okay. Uncle. I've dug a hole, I admit it. I blame the dress; it's made me stupid. Please help me."

I gaze up at him, too tempted to keep teasing him to let my face soften. Flustered Edward, whom I had rarely seen before Christmas night, is quickly becoming a favorite of mine. I rise to my toes – not far to go, in these heels – and lean in to whisper in his ear. "Tonight, Edward, I'm the engine. Cut the brake line."

Everything about him darkens: his eyes, the flush in his cheeks. And sweet baby Christmas Jesus, I'm going to need midnight to hurry the hell up and get here, pronto.

* * *

It amazes me, as the night crawls forward, how much sharper everything is without the softening effects of a good buzz. The party guests are aglow with hope and as glittery as their accessories; the air of possibility and anticipation is palpable. The massive flatscreen television mounted on the far wall is muted but shows the crowd at the city's first Chi-Town Rising event, dancing in their own glittery finery as various musical acts perform on a stage with the river in the background. The looming countdown is a focal point for everyone in the room but me; my countdown is focused on what will happen after the star rises and the calendar flips and Edward and I slip back into his truck and return to my apartment.

And yet, I let myself melt into the simplicity of a night out with him. We mingle, talking to party guests and Rose and Emmett, who gives me a single arched eyebrow in question, which I return with a small shrug and a smile I can't stop. When he grins and nods, I feel like we're finally, finally there: friends. At last. And when he puts a gentle hand low on Rose's back and I see her lean ever so slightly into it, my own smile grows.

After a loop of the room, Alice and Jasper find their way back to us, and we spend the last hour leading up to midnight chatting and laughing. Edward's hand on my back, his arm around my waist, his fingers threaded through mine, his breath in my ear…they're all having a far more potent effect on me than anything Rose could have poured me in her kitchen, and if I keep checking the clock counting down the minutes in the corner of the TV screen, I let everyone think it's midnight I'm waiting for. Only Edward knows the truth, if the knowing, smiling, smirking looks he keeps shooting me are any indication.

Alice is pleasantly toasted, leaning into Jasper's side in her insanely high heels, her sparkly tiara slightly crooked. "I want to get married on New Year's Eve."

Laughing, Jasper looks down into her face. "What?"

Alice gestures at the crowd around us with her drink, which only barely manages not to slosh over the rim of her plastic "glass." "The entire city is dressed up. The city _itself_ is dressed up. I want fireworks. And champagne. And…we should just do it. A year from now."

Jasper's grinning. "Okay."

"Next December 31. Make an honest woman out of me."

His grin grows. "Okay."

Alice jabs a finger in Edward's face, then mine. "Witnesses. Slash maid of honor."

"I'm flattered," Edward says, smirking. "You should know, though, that tea-length isn't my best gown." He leans in, as if sharing a secret. "Hairy shins, and all."

Alice beams, and turns to me. "Oh, I like this one."

I beam right back at her. "Me too."

She turns serious, or as serious as the cocktails flowing through her will allow. "I mean it, though. Maid of Honor. You're it. Okay?"

And I sort of missed it the first time, but it hits me now, the depth of what she's asking. "Of course, Alice. Of course I will. Thank you."

We hug, and just as we're pulling apart, Emmett appears with a handful of half-filled plastic champagne flutes. "Here we go, guys. For midnight. Try not to guzzle it all before then."

"I make no promises," Alice half-bellows, snatching her glass and shimmying slightly to whatever pop hit is coming from the now-unmuted television.

Emmett laughs. "Of course not." He hands glasses to Jasper, Edward, and me, and when he glances into my face, he grins, that same grin that made me like him instantly when I met him in my program, and then more when I found out he was Jasper's brother. The grin that tells me he knows what I know – this is where we were meant to be. Then he's gone, presumably back to the kitchen for more champagne to distribute, and our little quartet turns its attention to the screen counting down the last few minutes of the year. The bubbles in my champagne flute mimic the rising of the enormous glittering star on the TV, sliding gracefully up the side of the Hyatt Regency's West Tower, and I'm reminded of all the wishes I spent the past month making. All of the moments I spent wishing for _this_ very moment, and this very man. I remember the star glowing softly in Esme Cullen's upstairs window, and how it felt later, when I realized that, without even telling me, Edward had taken me home. To the only one he'd ever had that felt safe to him. To the one he's tried so hard to recreate for the other lost boys of Chicago. I think about those boys tonight, and what their wishes might be, what they might be dreaming for themselves. I think, too, of the lost girls roaming those city streets, and there's a tiny little starburst of an idea there that I put gently on a shelf in my mind, knowing that I won't be able to wait too long before pulling it down and turning it around and showing it to Edward to see what he thinks.

But here, in this moment, there are no lost boys and no lost girls. There are only the two of us, and the last minutes of this beautiful year slipping slowly away. People begin chanting, counting, and Edward half-turns so he's facing me, gazing down into my face, the small smile on his lips filling me with want.

 _Five._ I think about what it took to get me here. To this moment, and this man. Forks, and losing Charlie. Phoenix, and Renee. Seattle, Chicago. I think for a split second of my dad, and how much he would have genuinely _liked_ Edward. Respected him, yes, accepted him, certainly, but _liked_ him, too.

 _Four._ I think about how truly lucky I feel, not only because I'm here with Edward, but because I'm here with Edward and Alice and Jasper and Rosalie and Emmett. And I'm in a city that has Shelly Copes and Sams and Pauls and the Grove boys and sure, a lot of lost kids, but a whole hell of a lot of people just waiting to help them be found.

 _Three._ I look back up into Edward's face, this face I've adored for the past year and a half. The face I love, respect, admire. Bearded, stubbled, clean-shaven. Smiling, frowning, smirking, sleeping. I love it in all its incarnations, and I could spend every waking minute just staring at it and never tire of it.

 _Two._ He takes my left hand in his right and traces gentle fingers along my jaw, and it will never, _never_ cease to amaze me how someone who so easily could have been rough is so heartbreakingly, achingly gentle.

 _One._ Those eyes. The deep green of home. The soft green of Christmas trees. The jeweled green of _him_. I've never had a favorite color, but for the rest of my life, it will be green.

 _Happy New Year_. His lips. Warm, soft, perfect. He tastes like sugar. Then his tongue, and I feel his hand slide from my jaw to the base of my skull, cupping my head as he deepens the kiss. His other hand is still holding mine, and the difference – the innocence of our joined hands combined with the borderline indecent dance of our tongues – makes me want to screw him silly and cuddle him softly all at the exact same moment. My head spins, and I'm glad beyond words that I'm completely sober.

He pulls back, and we clink our flutes and each take only a tiny sip, a small toast to what lies ahead. In this year. In this night. In this love.

His eyes are bouncing between mine, and he's slightly breathless, and oh, the million and one ways I want to keep stealing his breath make me giddy with anticipation. As if he's read my mind, he leans forward, his words tickling the shell of my ear. "Let me take you home, Bella."

"Yes, please."

We say our goodbyes to Rose and Emmett, and after Jasper assures us that cabbing it home was his game plan all along, we exit into the cold night.

I can focus on next to nothing on the drive home, save the feel of his fingertips dancing along the bare skin of my kneecap, raising goose bumps in their wake. I'd think he was unaware of his effect on me, if not for the tiny curl at the corner of his mouth.

At a red light, he glances at me. "So…what happens when Alice gets married?"

"Uh, she'll have a husband?" I give myself a mental high-five for that one. He may be turning me to horny Jell-O, but he doesn't have to know that.

He smirks. "Brilliant. What I _meant_ was, what happens with your living situation?"

"Oh." I frown. "I don't know. I guess I'll look for a new place. Or…a new roommate. I'm not really sure what her plans are." He nods, glancing around as he waits for the green light. "Well. That's a conversation for another night, I guess. But…I'd like to have it. With you."

The light turns green, and he steps on the gas. "Okay," I say, grateful for a reason I can't articulate that his focus is on the road. Because the mere idea of having that conversation with him makes my stomach flip, and I'm already dealing with enough intestinal somersaults tonight without thinking about the possibility of cohabitation.

"Okay," he echoes, and, in true Edward fashion, leaves it at that.

When he pulls into my driveway and helps me out of the car, I try desperately not to grin at him like a ten-year-old who just won a sack race. But he's smiling at me, and I will never _not_ be affected by the way his smile – his _real_ smile – lights him up from within.

He follows me up the walkway, up the stairs, and just inside my front door, where we shuck our coats. Wordlessly, I take him by the hand and lead him through the darkened house, up the stairs and into my bedroom. He hesitates slightly in the doorway, and I flash back to the thought of him, standing on my doorstep in the cold. The thought of him, standing in Esme's foyer. That lost boy, suddenly found and still faintly disbelieving. But he's smiling, as if he finally, _finally_ gets it. I step in front of him and he draws me in, both hands on my hips, but I want to change before I get too carried away to break away from him.

"Just…give me a second, okay?"

I feel his hands let go of my sides, and he steps back. "Sure." He doesn't ask, and I can see that he figures this is one of those girl-things: take a minute to make whatever preparations are necessary. I'm beyond grateful, suddenly, that we had the "I'm-on-the-pill-I'm-clean" conversation before the heat of the moment was upon us.

In the blinding light of the bathroom, I stare at the scrap of fabric on the back of the door, price tags still dangling from it. It's the color of midnight, a navy blue so deep it's almost black, and the way it catches the light as it shifts reminds me of the Pacific beneath a moonlit sky. I've never been one for lingerie, but I remember the way Edward's eyes caught on the store window when we went Christmas shopping, and there's a truth to this moment that I can't deny: I want to give him something to unwrap.

I kick off the death heels and wiggle my toes in relief against the plush bathroom rug as I run a nervous hand through my hair. Shedding my sparkly, festive party dress as well as my bra, I unhook the straps of the slip from the hanger and pull the tags off carefully. There's a tiny line of lace trim along the top and bottom edges and a tiny bow between my breasts – my own allusion to his red sparkly lapel decoration. I pull it over my head, enjoying the cool slide of the silk against my already heated skin.

Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I take a deep breath. My eyes are bright. My cheeks are rosy. My hair is loose.

I look like exactly what I am: ready. Lifting my hand, I gently touch the swan pendant resting against my breastbone, and there's no amount of money in the world that could make me take it off for tonight. It's the first piece of jewelry a man who wasn't my father has ever given me, and when Edward slides this gorgeous silk number up and off me, I want the only thing left on my body to be his. This thing he bought me when he didn't know if he'd ever get me. It seems too perfect to be true, that just as he's my wish come true, I might be his.

Flipping the light switch, I step out into the hall, sending a quick, silent thank-you to Alice and Jasper for making themselves scarce. When I reach the doorway to my room, Edward is sitting on the edge of my bed, watching the door. As I cross the threshold, he launches himself to standing, eyes and mouth wide. He hasn't removed a stitch of clothing, and the idea of unwrapping _him_ fills me with an anticipation so strong it chases my nerves away.

"Whoa," he says again, and I laugh, a high, girlish, nervous giggle.

"If this is our new hello, I think I like it."

"It will be, if you keep showing up in outfits like tonight's." His lips are making the words, but the jest never quite makes it to his eyes, which are sweeping me from head to toe and back up to head again, pausing more than briefly on the swan necklace.

I prop a hand on one hip, masking my nervousness with bravado. "They were all sold out of the Santa hat set." A lie, but I couldn't quite bring myself to make anything about tonight a joke. Not when it's so very much not.

"What Santa hat?" he asks, eyes still running over me like questing fingers.

"From the store window."

He shakes his head. "This is better." Then, his eyes find mine. " _You're_ better." I don't for one second believe that I'm sexier than Miranda Kerr, but then I think about how I'd take him any day over Ryan Gosling or Robert Redford or any other Hollywood stud, and I realize that sexy is nice and all, but sexy with a chaser of smart and lovable and kind and selfless and flawed is pretty damn close to perfect.

This moment – a week, a month, eighteen – in the making. I don't think I've ever been in love with someone _before_ having sex with him – in fact, in this moment, I find myself doubting I've ever really been in love before – and the sheer anticipation of what lies ahead is more potent than any Christmas morning, any New Year's night. As much as it seems like an overstatement, it's the gateway to the rest of my life. To everything that comes next.

"Bella…" he murmurs into the not-quite-darkness, stepping closer.

"This does it for you?" I half-tease, and he groans, a soft, rumbly sound that makes me want to curl up on the couch with him again almost as much as I want to slip between the sheets of my bed with him.

"You have no idea," he mumbles, hands finding my hips again, thumbs sliding over the satin. "I…haven't done this in a while," he says in a low voice, eyes pinging from my face to my necklace and back up to my face.

"Yeah…me either."

He groans. "That doesn't really help me."

I smile, but the arousal of mere seconds ago yields to something infinitely softer. It hadn't really occurred to me, that he might be just as nervous as I am. He appears to be waiting for me to start the ball rolling, so I slide both hands up his chest, to the zipper of his sweater. That _sweater_. That so-very-Edward sweater, with its elbow patches and its soft wool and its warmth. I think, fleetingly, about all of the nights I spent imagining that I'd ever be here, be permitted to do this very thing, and joy sweeps through me. I pull the zipper down slowly, feeling each of its teeth as they separate, and when I look up, those green eyes are trained on my face, lids already heavy.

And I know it just from that look, that he loves me.

Lifting his arms just long enough that I get a glimpse of those dark elbow patches, he tugs at the neckline of the sweater and pulls it up and off, ruffling his hair in the process. I reach up and slide the knot of his tie free, dropping it on top of the sweater he let fall to the floor. His hands once again find my hips, and this time, he uses them to pull me flush against him, ducking his head and pressing his mouth to mine. As we kiss, I tug the bottom of his dress shirt free of his pants before sliding my hands up and under it, feeling the warm planes of his torso. He grunts softly into my mouth, and I start working on his row of buttons.

"It's sort of unfair," he says as he pulls away, faintly breathless, and I peer up at him as I free the first button.

"What is?" Second button.

"That I'm wearing so many clothes and you're just in…one."

"Well, two." Third button.

"Two?"

"Two," I confirm, thinking of the matching midnight blue panties he hasn't even seen yet.

As I slide the fourth button free, he groans. "Shit," he breathes, and I grin up at him.

"Now who's got the dirty mouth?" Fifth button.

"Trust me Bella, my mouth has nothing on the thoughts going through my mind right now."

Heat licks through me as the sixth button is undone. "Excellent. Besides, you know how I feel about Christmas."

"I do."

"Well. Consider this the best Christmas present ever, and know that I intend to fully enjoy unwrapping it." When the seventh and final button is undone and I see Edward, bare-chested and beautiful, my stomach flips. "Whoa."

He grins. "Yeah. I agree with you. I'm a fan of 'whoa.' I think we should see how many times we can make you say it." And with that, he scoops me up, bridal-style, and carries me the few short steps to my bed.

"A man on a mission." I'm no longer sure of what I'm saying, only that I desperately want to keep up with him in every possible way tonight, witty repartee included. With me deposited on the bed, Edward straightens and reaches for his belt buckle. I prop myself up on my elbows to watch. As he pushes his slacks off his hips, my pulse races. I can see the outline of him through his gray boxer briefs, and…well, holy shit.

"You should know that this is another whoa moment for me," I tell him.

"Excellent. I'm going to need you to keep track. I plan to be otherwise occupied."

"Duly noted."

He crawls toward me, smirking devilishly. "You always were very efficient."

And the allusion, however vague, to what we once were to each other only makes me more grateful that we found our way here. That we weren't destined to remain intern and supervisor. Friends.

"You have no idea," I reply, and even I'm not entirely sure what I'm implying, but he grins in appreciation anyway. Then, as his eyes roam my body, he shakes his head. "What?"

"You're so beautiful. _This_ —" here, he gently fingers the lacy hem of my slip "—is so beautiful. I don't want to take it off you, but at the same time, I _desperately_ want to take it off you."

I grin up at him. "Take it off me. I can wear it again." And I'd been so consumed by the thought of this – our first time – that I hadn't really thought to imagine all the times that will come after it. The times I'll wear this, or something else, or nothing at all. I shiver in anticipation, and as if taking it as a cue, Edward's gentle hands find the hem and start sliding it up. "Ah," he says, as my lacy underwear comes into view. "Two."

"Two," I agree, sitting up slightly so that he can pull the slip up and off.

"Whoa," he barely whispers, eyes on my chest, and it's such a typically _guy_ moment that I laugh.

"Well, thanks."

He shakes his head. "I thought I liked the way that necklace looked earlier, but now…" He trails off. "Just…whoa." He gazes down at me in silence for a beat before those capable hands find the waistband of my panties. "Okay?"

"Okay." He slides them smoothly down my legs, and by the time he's dropped them off the side of the bed, his eyes are darker than I've ever seen them.

"Bella," he whispers, sliding his hands back _up_ my legs and cupping my hips. "Jesus, you're gorgeous."

"Ditto," I murmur, finding his own waistband with my thumbs. "Now…your turn." And when he shucks his shorts, I suck in a surprised breath. Because, damn. But also…whoa. I'm immediately regretting my "straight trunk" comment from the Christmas tree lot, because apparently, I may have inadvertently offended him. But Edward's clearly not thinking of Christmas trees right now – or anything other than the naked chick sprawled beneath him – and I sigh in relief as he lowers his mouth to the soft skin of my stomach.

And, perhaps for the first time since I've known him, I lose my words. His mouth travels all over me – up, to neck and shoulders and breastbone and nipples – and down, to hips and thighs and softest, pinkest skin – before finding my mouth, with kisses hungry enough to bruise. "Edward," I whisper into the night, and he hums in response, groaning as my hand finds that long, heavy, so-very-male part of him. I spread my legs wider, because as much as I'm enjoying the foreplay, we have time for that later. Now, right now, right the hell now, I want _him_.

He needs no further encouragement, and it's been just long enough since the last time I did this that I can feel everything about the moment he slides into me. "Edward." It's all I can say – gasp, really – because it's the only thing in my mind.

Edward.

 _Edward._

It's _Edward_ doing this to me. With me. In me.

The man with the Mister Rogers sweaters and the rock salt and the Scrooge complex and the gentle, gentle heart.

I want to say a million things – about how I love him and want him and _love_ him and respect him and need him and like him and adore him. About how I think about him all the time, even when I'm not thinking about him, and how the stupidest, most irrelevant things make me think of him, even when they have nothing to do with him. About how I've been reduced to the fifteen-year-old version of myself: imagining my first name and his last printed together on white linen stationery, and picturing myself round-bellied with his babies. About how I want to know all of his stories, even the ones he thinks I won't want to know, and about how I want to heal the parts of him that scarred over years ago, even though I know I can't. About how he's enough, more than enough, more than any woman could possibly want or deserve, and that he doubts it only makes me love, want, like him more. About how I'm so overjoyed, so euphoric, so utterly relieved that he showed up on my doorstep on Christmas night and gave me the best gift I've ever gotten: him.

Edward.

But I can't say any of it out loud, because he's sliding slowly in and out of me, and I've never, _never_ felt anything like it. I wrap my legs around him and he moans, and the sound of it – a sound I've never heard him make – is nearly enough to push me over the edge all by itself. "Yes," I whisper, and he pulls back just enough to gaze down into my face, his hips still moving.

"Bella," he breathes, and I wonder if his mind is lost in the same utterly useless, entirely wonderful place as mine. I tip my head back as I feel him find the right spot inside me with somewhat alarming accuracy, and when I moan, low and long, he takes the cue and keeps hitting it, pace quickening and breaths shortening as he pushes up both up, up, up and over.

And as I fall, nothing – no illuminated star, no sparklers, no glittery celebratory accessories – could be nearly as bright as the firework display going on behind my own eyes. I feel him follow me over the edge, groaning and going still, pulsing where we're joined, and if I'd had any piece of my heart left in reserve, it'd be gone now, in this moment, when his eyes fall closed and he becomes wholly, completely, irreversibly mine. His head drops to my shoulder, and I press kisses to his temple, his hair, the shell of his ear.

I'm completely loose with love and lazy with the last vestiges of lust, and thank God he's not trying to bring the banter right now, because I'd have to concede.

"Sorry," he murmurs into my collarbone.

"Sorry?" I echo, trailing my fingertips over his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his shoulder blades.

"Hardly a record for stamina," he mumbles, but, blissed out as he is, he doesn't sound overly disappointed.

"Stamina is overrated."

"Oh?"

"I'm a fan of efficiency." At that, he lifts his head, smiling down at me.

"Efficiency, huh?"

I push his hair off his forehead. "And then some."

He grins, and presses his mouth to mine. And we lose ourselves there, in my twisted sheets and my darkened room, as the rest of the city celebrates its own new beginning. His kisses are soft but determined, and I feel another part of him becoming less soft as our lips and tongues slide against each other. "Edward," I whisper, and, as if I've broken the spell, he rears back.

"Hang on."

I prop myself up on my elbows as he stands, and even as aroused as I am, as utterly adoring as I am, it's sort of hilarious when a guy with a hard-on stands up and props his hands on his hips. "Whoa," I say with a grin, and he smirks back at me, but he seems suddenly, inexplicably distracted.

"Stand up for a sec."

"Okay. Different position? I'm game." He groans, but instead of bending me over the bed like I was half expecting, he pulls the comforter off my bed and bunches it up under his arm before grabbing me by the hand.

"Um, what the—"

"Come on," he says, pulling me out the bedroom door and along the darkened hallway and down the stairs.

"Edward, where—"

"Shh." He drops my hand when we get to the living room, and I watch as he spreads my comforter on the floor right next to the Christmas tree. When he turns back to look at me, he looks a million things I've only ever seen in flashes: pleased and embarrassed and hopeful and turned on and happy. "Get over here."

I do as I'm told, and the minute I'm standing in front of him, his fingers thread through my hair. "You've been trying to get me to like Christmas for two years," he murmurs, punctuating the comment with a soft kiss on my lips.

"I have."

"Well, getting to have sex with you beneath a Christmas tree would go a long way toward helping you achieve that goal."

"Done. Jeez, Edward, if I'd have known that last Christmas, you'd have saved me a lot of time and effort." But my attempt at snark is utterly derailed by the way he rather effortlessly picks me up and wraps my legs around his waist before lowering us to my puffy comforter.

And this time, stamina isn't even remotely a problem. He slides back into me, and if I had any reservations about his sexual competence, the unerring immediacy with which he finds that spot inside me erases it all from memory. "Fuck, Edward," I hiss, spreading my legs even wider, as if it could be possible to get him any deeper inside me.

"Yeah?" he asks, but it isn't really a question and we both know it. "God, Bella, I wanted you for so long."

"I wanted you, too."

And even if he acted like this was for him, the way the lights make his features glow, the fact that we're doing this, here, beneath my tree…I know, even if he didn't admit it, that it's for me, too. My best gift, quite literally beneath the tree. I don't know how long we're there, slowly loving each other beneath Alice's and my Fraser fir, but when he sends me shattering into orgasm for what has to be the third time and then follows me, I realize that as much as I love Christmas – and will always love Christmas – no future yuletide will ever hold a candle to this New Year's Eve.

When Edward slides out of me and collapses beside me on the blanket, the colored fairy lights sprinkling our skin like rainbow confetti, I turn to gaze at his profile, lost in a haze of bliss and adoration and love.

"So…I stand corrected."

"Hm?" He's blissed out, dots of light on his skin, long lashes casting tiny shadows on his cheekbones.

"About the tree. And the euphemism."

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

I roll toward him, nestling into his side, running a hand over the soft skin of his stomach. "The straight trunk. I was wrong about that."

He cracks an eye and gazes sideways at me through its slit. "Oh?"

"Yup. Call it inexperience. I can absolutely admit that I was 100 percent mistaken."

A slow, satisfied smirk spreads over his face like warm honey, and I love all his looks, but this – so utterly, completely pleased with himself and so boyishly cocky with it – makes me shiver. "I'm thrilled I could correct that highly flawed misconception."

"Honestly. I don't know why more dildos aren't shaped like…well, you."

At that, he laughs out loud, all vestiges of post-orgasm bliss chased away. "Well, there it is. You found your dream job – exterior Christmas light decorator – and I've found mine. Dildo model."

"Not a chance, bucko. I waited long enough for this to be all mine; I'm not about to share it now."

He's still smiling when he rolls toward me, but it's tempered by something more serious. "I'm sorry. That you had to wait. That _we_ had to wait."

I shrug. "It was worth it. _You_ were worth it." I slide my hand down his stomach and gently trace my fingernails over the skin beneath his belly button. "This was certainly worth it."

He rolls back onto his back, gazing up at the tree lights, grinning. "I'm delighted to hear it."

"I have a confession, though."

"Hit me with it."

Pressing my lips to the muscle of his shoulder, I say the words into his skin. "I lost track. Of the whoa moments."

He's still grinning, but when he looks back at me, it's softer somehow, his green eyes a near match for the tree above us. "Me too." His hand finds mine on the blanket between us, and he weaves our fingers together. "And…not just tonight."

"Yeah," I say, swallowing against the knot that formed at the base of my throat. "Not just tonight."

We gaze across the barely-there space between us for a few seconds before he blows out a breath and pulls me toward him. "So…serious question now."

"Okay."

"Which holiday do I have to pretend to hate for you to let me seduce you in a bathtub?"

I grin. "How about New Year's Day?"

* * *

 _Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight  
When it's exactly twelve o'clock that night  
Welcoming in the New Year  
New Year's Eve.  
Maybe I'm crazy to suppose  
I'd ever be the one you chose  
Out of the thousand invitations you received  
Ooh, but in case I stand one little chance  
Here comes the jackpot question in advance  
What are you doing New Year's Eve?_

 _(Ella Fitzgerald, "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?")_

* * *

 **Thank you, as always, for being so unfailingly awesome. Here's hoping that 2016 brings each and every one of you the thing your heart hopes for most of all. And lots of "whoa moments." xo**


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